


Kill By Numbers

by wolfbeater



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Androids, BAMF Stiles, Biopunk Elements, Bottom Derek, Canonical Parallels, Futuristic, Hacker!Lydia, Multi, Pack Dynamics, Slow Build, Top Stiles, Torture, cyberpunk elements, sort of character death, werewolves with a twist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:21:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfbeater/pseuds/wolfbeater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a futuristic Beacon Hills, Stiles is on a routine of bashing up machines created by Argent, a corporation that holds a great amount of control over the city. His routine is shaken when he meets Derek Hale, who has returned to Beacon Hills to investigate the fire that killed his family eight years prior and all signs point to Argent. Together they discover that the Argent Corporation carries  many malicious secrets far beyond what they had originally believed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nightforce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd and dedicated to [Sarah](http://yellowcityheart.tumblr.com) who has put up with so many questions and huge documents.
> 
>  
> 
> I don't own Teen Wolf. This fic is heavily influenced by Blade Runner/Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep. And a bit of Akira. I also don't own those.
> 
> Title is taken from Down in the Park by Gary Numan. Chapter title is taken from Nigh Force by Power Glove.
> 
> Much of this fic is already written so the tags will be updated as the fic itself is updated. Hopefully I will have updates once a week but I'm juggling another fic on top so it may be longer.

The robotic voice crawls up the wall and into his room from the streets below; it speaks technological gibberish, a blur of buzzes and words. Exactly what he’s come to expect from the mindless metal combing the streets. Stiles secures the blue bandana around his face as he peers out his window, facing the heart of the inner city.

From his room he can make out one the large screens looming over the business district. Images and advertisements flash across it, giving off soft hues of neon colours. The building is one of the tallest in the city and the television offers a constant stream of commercials. At designated hours it broadcasts the news.

He breathes in deeply; the bandana smells like sweat and blood and fond memories, and he grins against the fabric knowing that’s what awaits him tonight.

Stiles is eighteen and has his whole life ahead of him. A former honours student with countless windows to jump through. He’s got the title of most-likely-to-succeed to his name; a promise to society he’d never made. Because instead of furthering his education, he sits at home and plays video games or he sneaks out at odd hours of the night to wreak havoc on city property.

Wasted brains on a wasted youth.

He kneels to the floor and reaches underneath his bed, hands grasping cold metal — a stick, similar in shape to a crowbar. It curves like one, ending in a fissured point. But it thickens slightly on the opposite end, offering a textured handle of sorts for his fingers to grasp onto. He looks it over, admiring its craftsmanship. As he should, it’s a nasty piece of work.

Stiles climbs to his feet and in moments he is out the window, barely touching the metal platform of the fire escape before taking hold of the drop down ladder. It jams through its fall and he sighs heavily,  lets his fingers slip from around the rail and plunges to the grimy streets below. A pile of trash breaks his fall, but a small amount of pain still rushes up through his legs. He takes a moment to let it recede and pulls out his phone, a thin and compactable device, tapping through it until he reaches the name Scott.

“Did you trigger it yet?” he asks eagerly.

“Not yet, Isaac was going to but we’re waiting for you. Usual spot?”

“I’ll be there soon,” Stiles replies with a smirk.

Stiles promptly hangs up with a slide of his thumb and proceeds to dust himself off. Dirt clings to his grey jeans, but with gaping rips at the knees it’s hardly a big deal. He sets off in pursuit of the usual spot, a connection of alleyways in a neighbouring area. The street he resides on is mostly deserted, narrow and dimly lit with spotty streetlamps. Down the road he watches the silhouette of a machine wheel away, the same one he had heard spout the electronic words.

He keeps to the shadows as he walks, casually carrying the bar over his shoulder and ducking into crevices in walls when cars drive by. He’s not particularly worried about being seen; the neighbourhood isn’t watching or anything, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious, especially when wielding a weapon. Any car could be a police cruiser, and he doesn’t know how he would explain – especially to his father – walking around the streets with a fucking crowbar. And, of course, there is always the risk of being jumped. And while Stiles is sure he could take care of himself, it’s certainly not a situation he wants to find himself in.

His walk down the residential stretch is mostly an uneventful one. Clouds crowd the sky, blocking out nonexistent stars. Stiles has never seen a star before. Even on  clear nights. The city pollutes the sky with its lights and the stars seem to shy away. He’s seen them in pictures and movies, of course. Sometimes he wonders how he’d react to actually seeing them. Would it be overwhelming to see all the constellations? Or would it be as comforting as the distinct smell of recent rain hanging in the air?

The roads and sidewalks glisten underfoot, and water pools in the depressions of cracked cement. The day’s rain should have washed away some of the city's grunge, but it seems to have only added to the dreary state of the neighbourhood. It’s not the most pleasant area in the city, but by no means is it the worst. It’s quiet in terms of violence, but loud in terms of actual noise. From an apartment building across the way he can hear a couple fighting; from another, the sounds of a television show blaring the sounds of an action sequence. The flat above houses the neighbourhood alcoholics and the night is in full swing for them.

Eventually the road widens when he reaches a more populated area with stores and restaurants. The streetlights don’t flicker here as they do on his residential block; they’re well-kept and cast a warm glow over the ground and signs mounted on the fronts of buildings. Stiles pauses at a corner with his crowbar tucked neatly to his side, waiting impatiently for a hovering car to glide by. Down the street he spots a machine picking up trash from the sidewalk. He keeps his eyes on it, even as he crosses the intersection.

Beacon Hills has had machines for as long as he can remember. At first, regular servicing bots were the only ones that roamed the streets, cleaning litter and taking trash away. It wasn’t until just before the Hale fire that policing bots were introduced. Stiles doesn’t remember the fire that clearly.

The mansion stands on the edge of the city, so it’s not as if he were there when it went up in flames. The only reason he knows its place in the city's timeline is because his father is Chief of police and had raved about how excited the force was about the addition of machines to help them on the field.

At first, it had been great; they were like companions. After the fire, however, his father began complaining about how more and more machines were being manufactured and how they were quickly depleting his human workforce. Over the years the trend continued and now they vastly outnumber real police. As a result, his father doesn’t make as much money as he once had. Chief of police apparently isn’t as important a title as it had been eight years ago.

So some nights, he, Scott, and Isaac like to sneak out and thwack the shit out of the things.

He turns off into a backstreet lined with bins and dirt. It's darker than the main road he’d just been on and he can only make out outlines of pipes that run above his head. It’s only one of many in the system of connected back ways in this part of the city. Deserted and cold, for the most part, unlike the neighbouring roads.

Stiles jumps over a tattered sleeping bag, not having seen it, but knowing from experience it was there. A shout of obscenity bounces off the brick walls, chasing him out into another passage. The road acts as an air funnel and a breeze whips down it. It is cool and nips briskly at the bare skin peeking up from the bandana, making him shiver deftly.

A lean body knocks into Stiles, nearly sending him crashing to the ground.

“Stiles!” the familiar voice is hushed.

Scott grabs his forearm and steadies him. He’s got his bat in his left hand; it’s aged and beat-up, singed and fractured with the memories of burning bots. But it’s still good and Scott will probably use it until it splinters apart. Behind his best friend stands Isaac, an electric baton in hand, already crackling with sparks. Stiles had given it to him after finding it at the station. So far no one knows it’s missing.

They’re both dressed in similar fashion to him. Isaac wears a simple black pullover, with a matching bandana tucked beneath his chin — it’s highly unlikely he’ll pull it up. The only reason he wears it is because Stiles and Scott make him. Either Isaac doesn’t care about being seen, or he’s confident in his ability to avoid trouble. Perhaps rightfully so, Isaac _is_ good at their little missions, and he highly enjoys them. Stiles suspects they allow him to release whatever bad emotions his family life bleeds into him. Scott, on the other hand, has his own bandana up to almost his eyes and the hood of his striped jacket hangs over his forehead. He doesn’t look as comfortable and Stiles has a hunch that he just comes along for the ride.

“Ready?” Isaac asks with a raised brow and a crooked smile. It’s a smug look, but he manages to make the expression appear endearing.

Stiles nods, brushing his thumb over a groove on his own weapon’s handle. The metal hums softly in his hands and takes on a dim purple glow that stops a few inches from where he grasps it. He’s not sure what would happen were he to touch it, and he doesn’t have the slightest desire to find out.

He gives it a firm shake downwards. In the darkness, the fluorescence has a delayed effect, leaving a thin streak of light in its wake. Stiles then edges to the corner of a building, peeking around it.

He can see one of the blasted creations a few yards away from where they are. A policing bot doing a routine check. It travels on wheels, but grows with human characteristics from the waist up. Arms with mechanical hands and grabbing digits branch out from its torso, flexing automatically. Upon a short metal neck sits a head with a smooth face that curves at a slight angle. Two blue lights serve as its eyes and are one of its only definite facial features; the other is its mouth, but the thin line close to its chin won’t light up unless it speaks. And branded across its chest reads the word ARGENT, the company who produces them.

Argent produces a lot of things, but their claim to fame is definitely their machines, which surprisingly don’t venture into the uncanny valley. It’s somewhat of a powerhouse, pumping out electronics and appliances alike. A home devoid of an Argent product is hard to come by. It’s got Beacon Hills – no, the whole damn state of California – wrapped around its cold and calculating little finger. Cold and calculating because no big business gets to the top without severing the heads of those around them. Argent has influence over the city, so much so that they might as well be running it.

But Stiles doesn’t want that, definitely not.

Stiles waits for the robot to turn away, then glances back at the other two boys, nodding once more before taking off down the street towards the machine. Scott and Isaac trail behind, weapons at the ready.

Surprise is the best method of attack because once detected it becomes harder to get the perfect hit. And the perfect hit is the best hit — the one that brings the most gratification. Stiles runs up alongside it, swinging the crowbar over his left shoulder before delivering a strong blow to the chest plate. A blast of purple sparks erupt from the spot hit and falter up in a neon glow. The machine drops to the ground, screaming as its inner workings short circuit. The heap of metal spasms at Stiles' feet, spewing out melting words. Close behind, he can hear Scott and Isaac do damage of their own as others become aware the violence. This is the proverbial trigger. A single hit and more machines will come.

“Stop citizen!”

Several roll towards them, babbling on about violations. His bandana creases as a smirk plays beneath it. The three boys bound towards the machines. Purple sparks, accompanied by gurgled words and the sound of sizzling metal spit through the air.

“Code two-nine-five, code two-nine-five.”

The string of words catch Stiles off balance, and he concentrates for a moment, trying to identify the alert. He’s never heard that one before. Code eight-four means a violation against a bot which is the one they hear most. So often, in fact, that they hardly ever notice it. In no way does two-nine-five resemble that.

“Scott!” Isaac’s voice cuts through the air, loud and rattled.

Stiles turns even though it wasn’t addressed to him. Isaac is being rushed by four machines, and usually he’d be able to handle it easily but the baton seems to have lost its charge and he can’t bash them quickly enough. Scott has already begun to beat his bat into one and by the time Stiles reaches them Isaac has regained enough of his common sense and is able to use his baton in much the same way. And then Stiles catches the sight of them: countless bots, buzzing past the opening of the alley, some stopping at the entrance and turning towards them.

 _Something’s wrong_. _Something is seriously wrong_. The thought burns through him like wildfire.

“Come on,” Stiles urges, crashing his crowbar into one as he begins running to another side street, “fun’s over.”

They follow suit, clambering atop a garbage bin and dropping behind it as a few machines drive by while muttering unintelligible things, strands of electronic words.

“What the fuck happened?” Scott asks, clearly frightened. He takes out a blue and white object from the pocket of his hoodie and brings it to his lips. His eyes roll in relief as he inhales.

Isaac shrugs, now calm and collected, “It just stopped working. I panicked.”

Stiles wants to point out all the times Isaac has dragged the thing — whilst activated — across the sides of buildings and how the weapon has never _just stopped working_. But he doesn’t.

“So are we going to just ignore the fact that a whole ar- _fucking_ -mada of machines went by?” Stiles hisses.

“What was the code?” Scott asks. He’d heard it too.

Stiles shrugs, “Two-nine-five? I’ve never heard it before. And I’ve never seen it in my dad’s files.”

Isaac shifts his weight, trying to find a good position in which to sit as he continually attempts to activate the baton. Despite his unwavering voice he seems uncomfortable. Stiles knows he has problems with cramped spaces and that they won’t be able to hide in their current spot for much longer.

“I’m not swiping you a new one,” Stiles starts sternly and Isaac just nods.

“At least I can still hit stuff,” he smiles.

They sit in silence for a while, listening as machines whir back and forth, until they finally decide they’ll have to move and just hope for the best. Isaac inches out first — glad to be free of the small space — and he pauses on the lid of the garbage, checking to make sure the coast is clear before giving a nod when it is. Stiles lifts himself up next, nearly tumbling to the ground due to Scott prematurely jumping up and knocking into his back. They mutter curse words at each other but are quickly shushed by Isaac.

“Look,” he points to the end of the alley where another set of machines wheel by.

“What are they doing?” Scott asks, barely above a whisper.

Stiles shrugs, because the hell if he knows.

The trio keep close to the walls of alleys as they navigate the veins of the neighbourhood, having strayed farther than they realized during their fun. They stop periodically to flatten themselves against cool bricks when the familiar robotic sounds creep from around corners. Stiles feels a bit silly hiding out like this, but something is afoot and it has them all feeling uneasy.

Isaac is the first to branch off, and Scott next. Stiles takes to only the backstreets, opting out of choosing the shorter way through the main roads. Doing so means taking a wide, circling detour. But it feels worth it. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t on edge, something’s up with Beacon Hills tonight. A new code, the influx of machines patrolling the streets, it’s downright _eerie_.

Stealth and light feet help him to navigate the route back home. He makes it to where he had originally met up with Scott and Isaac, then turns back down the dark alleyway and gently edges past the sleeping bag. By now the machines have wandered outwards from the area, although he still keeps an open ear, listening for their telltale voices.

Stiles runs across the street to the next alley, pausing for a few seconds to check the road before crossing. His footsteps echo as he races down the long stretch; the resounding noise scrapes across the concrete walls around him in an uneven fashion, not quite matching up to his own gait.

He stops in his tracks.

Hair prickles up on the back of his neck, and all at once the world goes silent. His body aligns into a rigid state. He can feel his pulse, right behind his ears. Can feel the blood course in a fast beating rhythm. But he can’t hear it. Stiles forces his body to turn. A sharp breath hitches in his throat. Just in the mouth of the alley stands a figure.

“Gary, I swear, I didn’t pull any funny business back there. No fancy jumping-over-the-sleeping-bag tricks,” Stiles calls unsurely down to the person. “Seriously, I’ll stop that, scouts honour…”

His voice trails off into a whisper as he focuses on the silhouette. The figure is broad-shouldered and big and utterly unresponsive. As far as he knows, Sleeping Bag Gary is quite small and has a sailor’s tongue. Stiles can’t make out the stranger’s eyes, but he knows that they’re staring directly into his. It sends a tingle of trepidation up his spine, not being able to discern any features, but being able to feel their gaze upon his own. Stiles inches his thumb towards the groove of the crowbar and in a quick second — as though the subtle movement’s been noticed — red flashes on the person’s face, right where their eyes should be.

The blood in his veins turn to ice almost instantly, as if his body has been thrown into a vat of liquid nitrogen. He wills his feet to shuffle backwards, his mind choosing flight over fight. Spinning on his heels, he takes off through the backstreets, feet clumsily sloshing through puddles.

Navigating the connection of alleys comes naturally, sheer instinct taking over, driving him onwards. Whatever it is, it’s surely following. But Stiles is gifted with a quick step and an even quicker mind. He knows exactly where he is in the network of backstreets, knows which turn will get him home with time to spare. He takes a right at that point and instantly regrets it.

A tall chain link fence looms at the end of the street and shoots a hole directly in his home run advantage – cutting him short. In his haste, he’d forgotten to account for it and almost trips over his own feet. With the stutter in his step there’s not enough time to clear it. He focuses in on a ledge a few yards down that ducks into a crevice. Stiles runs for it, lifting himself up with relative ease, squeezing between the railing, and rolling into its safety.

The crevice leads down a short tunnel and at the far end stands a door and a bin for trash. Panels of obscured glass line one side of the expanse. There’s a soft cerulean light behind them. It casts a glow against his skin which undulates in a tranquil motion. The smell of chlorine is faint in the air around him. A pool, Stiles realizes. He’s behind one of the gyms.

Stiles rests on the balls of his feet, crouching low to the ground and looking at the road as his lungs ache out shallow breaths. He’s not sure what he saw, a new machine maybe. It certainly wouldn’t surprise him, what with the strange code he’d heard. All Stiles can do for now, however, is hope it’s stupid, if not…

His sweaty hands tighten around the metal still cradled in his grasp and instantly he feels foolish and even ashamed for fleeing. He’s got a perfectly good weapon. And he almost _wants_ the machine to find him.

Wish granted. The figure lifts itself into view and onto the ledge with more grace than Stiles had, swinging seamlessly over the rail and landing with a muted thump. Their high-tops scuff the cemented platform and Stiles realizes it’s not a robot. Unless Argent is now creating androids with killer fashion sense.

The male — most definitely male — wears a leather jacket with grey fleece sleeves. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath the material, as if darting through three or four alleys did nothing. After a pause he takes a few steps towards Stiles, crouching to his level.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice is low and sharp. The jacket's hood is up and his face is angled down slightly. It’s difficult to make out his features under so much shade.

“What do I think I’m doing?” Stiles sputters out, dumbfounded. Last time he checked, running was a perfectly reasonable option when being chased. “What do you think _you're_ doing, chasing an _innocent_ person through alleys at night?”

“Who are you?”

“Again, pretty sure I should be asking you these questions,” Stiles is certain he’s going to get beat, so he might as well go out with some sarcasm. It acts as a distraction from feeling scared. Which, he realizes that very second, is a terrible defence mechanism.

The stranger leans forward, inches away from his face. Stiles lets his eyes flicker down. He can see the other’s jaw, sharp and dusted with stubble. Through gritted teeth the stranger repeats himself, “I said, who are you?”

Stiles shudders out a breath and shrinks back, “If you’re going to rape me, can we keep this on a no-name basis?”

A hand reaches up and Stiles anticipates firm fingers against his throat. Instead, the hand takes a fistful of his hoodie, yanking him forwards. “You and your little friends nearly got me killed tonight. How stupid are you?”

Stiles has never hit a human with the crowbar before. Bashing a machine is one thing, and he knows how much damage it deals to them, and until this moment, hurting a living creature seemed daunting. He activates the crowbar and swings it back for momentum. The stranger twitches his head towards the movement, but doesn’t react fast enough. Stiles sends it right into the side of his cloaked face, throwing his hood off. A pained cry rips from his throat as he topples over, falling against a window. There’s no coloured sparks, no fizzling explosions. Just a purple glow that pulses beneath his skin.

Stiles sits there for a few seconds, stunned by his own action. Panic finally forces movement into his limbs and he leaps off the ledge running, nearly losing his balance when he hits the ground. The crowbar, tight in his hand, smoulders against the darkness as he runs. Only when it catches the side of a trash can — sending sparks into the air — does he realize it’s still on. He brushes over the power button, silently scolding himself for not doing so right away.

The weapon is great in combat, evidently. But for stealth? Not so much.

He reaches the fence and scrambles up onto it, hooking the curve of the crowbar through the chain linking above his head. Stiles uses it to aid in pulling himself up, scaling the fence efficiently. The metal linking is wet from that day’s rain and he loses his footing on the way over, grazing his free palm and it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall the rest of the way. The adrenaline in his bloodstream does little to stifle the stinging in his hand and he clenches it into a fist, willing the pain away.

Home isn’t far, and he reaches his block in what feels like minutes. He makes a jump for the ladder, using the same method as before to pull himself up. Blood flows freely from the gash in his palm so he tries to avoid wrapping it around each rung. When he presses too much, a soured pain shoots across his hand. A sharp gasp catches in his throat and he nearly chokes on it as he forces himself up the remaining rungs. He heaves over the landing and despite trying to move quietly, it creaks beneath his weight. His window is only a few steps away and he’s suddenly extremely grateful for its proximity. He takes a step forward and chucks the crowbar in before throwing himself through.

His entrance is less than graceful and he topples onto the floor with a loud thud. Fire burns in his legs as he staggers to his feet, the exertion from the nearly constant run finally catching up with him. He turns and shuts the window in a wobbling step, making sure to lock it.

Stiles looks out, searching the streets below. Empty. Pulling the bandana down, he breathes in deeply. Perhaps he should taste relief instead of bitterness. After all, he’s just made a grand escape and even has a battle scar to show for it. A bloodied souvenir that’s dripping off his fingertips and onto the shoddy fake hardwood.

His mind flashes to his assailant, trembling under the cerulean windows, wheezing out as the purple afterglow continued to injure him. Stiles had only seen his face for a second, but he can’t shake the unsettling feeling that he’s seen it before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Comments and kudos are much appreciated.  
> You can follow me at my [tumblr](http://wolfbeater.tumblr.com).


	2. Tying Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally a lot longer, so I've split it into two parts.  
> Thanks to [Sarah](http://yellowcityheart.tumblr.com) for beta-ing nearly 8000 words.  
> (I also originally planned to have fifteen chapters, but it's probably going to be longer so the question mark remains.)

“You got jumped?”

Stiles picks at the poorly wrapped gauze around his palm as Scott has some sort of breakdown. The gash aches, but it’s dull compared to the initial pain and nearly nonexistent compared to disinfecting it. Isaac – seated a few feet away – is much more composed, listening attentively and not butting in at random intervals. Or maybe he’s just extremely exhausted and isn’t listening at all.

 It’s ten a.m. on a Saturday and Stiles had called them to meet at the small urban park near Beacon Hills High and he’d just given them a replay of the previous night’s events — or tried. Stiles had only gotten to hiding behind the gym when Scott jumped up from the brass ledge of the water fountain they were sitting on, exclaiming a little too loudly. 

“That’s not the important part,” Stiles sighs. It’s a big detail, certainly. But by no means is it any sort of focal point.

“How is that not important?” Scott’s voice breaks into a higher octave than Stiles thought was possible.

“I know who it was. Derek Hale,” Stiles declares, like it’s supposed to mean something. Because it does. Both Isaac and Scott tilt their heads and Stiles feels like there’s a ball of high-energized frustration bounding around inside his body. “Do you remember the fire from a few years back?” Stiles starts on a history lesson and doesn’t wait for any responses. “There was one survivor. Derek Hale. I remember my dad talked about him, how upset he was. I mean, who wouldn’t be? And since he was the only survivor, they had to pull him into questioning. And it was really messy”

By now Stiles can see the telltale expressions of come-on-get-to-the-point on his friend’s faces, so he hurriedly continues.

“He had an alibi – school. Then he just vanished from Beacon Hills. I wasn’t sure at first, but I went to the station this morning, and I may have accessed the system.” He reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out a hastily folded report. “It was him, it was totally him.”

Scott nods slowly, seeming to recall the fire, “So where is he now?”

“That’s the thing,” Stiles grimaces and inhales sharply, playing wildly with his bandage out of nervousness, “I think I killed him.”

The sentence pulls Isaac from his tired state and both his and Scott’s jaws drop.

“What do you mean? How?” Scott stammers and pulls in closer.

“I punched him in the face,” Stiles replies sarcastically with a roll of eyes, “I whacked him with the crowbar! The guy was like, massively built. He had me by the throat, so it was justified. I guess turning it on might have been going too far.”

Silence settles between them. All of them share a look of unease and Stiles can feel them scanning his face for any hint of a lie. He wishes he were joking. Flashing images had kept him up all night, tossing and turning. He hadn’t even bothered to change his clothes.

Stiles shifts awkwardly under the scrutiny, “I’m going back. I just, I feel terrible. A machine screaming is one thing, but when a human does it… And he kept on talking about how we nearly got him killed.”

Isaac lets out a chuckle, “Well that’s ironic.”

Stiles shoots him a glare. “I’m having a crisis here. My dad always said he was a good kid,” he explains further as he runs his good palm over his face, exhaling wearily.

“A good kid doesn’t bust up someone’s hand,” Scott nods to the bandage.

“This?” Stiles raises his right hand, “this is technically my fault.” But he decides technicalities can fuck off because the dull stinging in his palm wouldn’t even be there if Derek hadn’t chased him. Guilt may be wreaking havoc on his system, but he’s still angry.

Stiles rises to his feet and starts across the park. It’s one of few in the city. Not many urban hubs have trees – in or surrounding. So, Beacon Hills prides itself on them, as well the small preserve just on the outskirts.

“You’re going right now? Without anything?” Scott stops him from walking too far, reaching out and numbly pulling on Stiles’ ratty sleeve.

Stiles hesitantly turns. “ _Yes_ , I’m going right now. And _no_ , I’m not going without anything. Pretty sure I’m not going anywhere without the crowbar now.”

“You’re going to walk around in broad daylight with it?” Isaac cuts in, raising a brow.

“No, I’m driving,” Stiles motions towards the parking lot. He’s also sure he will be driving more often as well. “Now, are you two coming?”

Scott and Isaac share a look Stiles can’t exactly discern but understands well enough what it means.

“I’m supposed to drive my mom to work in an hour,” Scott says apologetically.

“My dad caught me sneaking in last night,” Isaac shuffles his feet against the pavement in an uncomfortable manner, hands tucked away in the pockets of his jeans.

Stiles sighs inwardly. He’s doing this solo.

“Stiles, what if he’s not dead?” Scott’s grip tightens on the fabric of his hoodie, holding him back from leaving.

“I haven’t given that much thought,” he admits sheepishly with a small shrug.

Scott gives him an apprehensive look. “What are you going to do if he is? And oh my god, what if he _isn’t_?”

“I’m sort of just going with the flow on this one,” Stiles says, shaking him off gently.

 -

Some call his jeep old and dated; Stiles prefers retro and he’ll argue all day if he’s told otherwise. It’s not one of the sleek models that can hover – it was manufactured before that technology. But it’s resilient and isn’t terrible in the looks department. He sits in it, tapping nervously on the steering wheel for a few minutes before pulling into traffic.

The city looks different during the day. The sky is clear and sunlight hits glass panelled buildings and reflects off. Some areas are still undeniably gritty, but the downtown core sheds its neon luminescence and takes on a more naturally brighter personality. More people of-the-less-sketchy-variety roam the streets, going about their daily business with no concern for the body possibly lying dead in some alleyway. He cringes at the thought.

The hordes of robots have disappeared, leaving the usual amount to patrol the streets. That observation takes him back a few hours.

Overnight, a theory came to him. He refused to entertain it at first, but it persisted.

_“You and your little friends nearly got me killed tonight.”_

Through the night that sentence became increasingly difficult to ignore. But he hadn’t uttered a word to his friends about it because maybe there was no correlation between Derek and the bizarre code. Stiles hadn’t even said anything about the glowing eyes. It sounds crazy. And the more he thinks about it, the more muddled his recollection of the event becomes.

Stiles doesn’t go to the alley straight away. Instead he turns around and drives home, twiddling away the hours and mulling over stale thoughts.

It’s after a microwavable lunch and well into the afternoon before he works up the courage and tries again.

Stiles turns into the narrow road in which he’d first noticed Derek and begins to map out his journey. The connections of backstreets look far less intimidating during the day, but the jeep does offer an immense sense of safety. He pulls into the dead-end alley and exits the vehicle after more nervous tapping.

“Please don’t be dead,” he mutters to himself over and over. A mantra that doesn’t, in any way, help him forward. Instead, his legs grow increasingly reluctant with each repetition.

Anxious blood runs in his veins as he nears the ledge. On one side is a short set of stairs he had not been able to see in the dark. So he rounds the cement block and takes those with unsteady steps. Perhaps he’s not cut out for the whole running around at night stuff if he feels guilty for the simple – not to mention vital – act of protecting himself. He reaches the top step, can barely find his footing, and reminds himself that he would have gotten hurt had he not swung.

Sunlight invades the previously dark hallway, driving the shadows to the far end. He lets his eyes wander across the ground, inching slowly over the cement. Voices and the sound of splashing water echo from behind the windows. The corridor looks and sounds lively, but has a grim feel to the air. His teeth crawl over his lower lip, trying to bite away the anticipation. It should hurt, he’s nearly breaking skin, but raw nerves have numbed out all his senses.

He reaches the spot. Derek’s body doesn’t lie where it had the previous night. There’s a brief sense of relief and then Stiles furrows his eyebrows in confusion and dread edges its way into his mind. Had someone found the body? Was he right in thinking the machines had something to do with Derek?

“Come to finish me off?” a nonchalant voice, dashed with spite, sounds from the back of the hall and it nearly knocks Stiles back.

Leaning against the door at the end of the hallway is a figure he hadn’t even noticed. The stranger takes a step forward and sunlight pours over his features.  The man before him isn’t the gangly and awkward teen pictured in the police report, but it’s definitely Derek Hale. Eight years away from Beacon Hills has done his body good. Perhaps too good. His face shows no signs of damage. Completely untouched and it makes Stiles’ skin crawl.

“You’re okay?” Stiles manages in a breath after a storm of stutters. He remembers swinging hard. _Really hard_. And sure, he doesn’t know what his weapon can really do, but he wagers a person wouldn’t just be able to get up afterwards with no dents.

“No thanks to that,” he says harshly, nodding to the crowbar. He stands at the edge of the shadows and Stiles isn’t about to close the distance between them. “Where did you get it?”

Stiles is taken aback by the question and finds himself tightening his grip on the weapon protectively. “Why do you want to know?”

He remembers where he got it. He remembers when and how. A year ago he’d been cruising around with his dad when a call came in. A lady complained about screaming and wailing, she thought some sicko on her street had been abusing an animal. Considered a minor disturbance, Stiles’ father had let him come along, but told him to stay in the car. Stiles had never been good at that. Keeping still for very long wasn’t, and still isn’t one of his strong suits. Especially when something catches his eye. And that night, something did. A purple light, buzzing dimly near the side of a building nearby. He’d slipped past the cops and bots, (definitely one of his strong suits,) and retrieved it.

“Just tell me,” Derek enunciates every word while taking a few more steps forward.

“You don’t intimidate me, _Derek_ ,” Stiles says and can’t help the small smile when Derek stops in his tracks, his eyes glazing over with disorientated shock.

“How do you know my name?”

Stiles reaches into the pocket of his hoodie, pulling out the folded police report and throws it to him with a flick of his wrist. Fast reflexes save the paper from falling to the ground. “Being son of the Chief of police has its benefits.” He grins, pleased with himself.

Derek scans over the paper. His face holds a somber expression that Stiles can’t quite decipher. “Stilinski,” Derek lets the name roll off his tongue slowly. Tasting a memory.

“Stiles,” he says. It’s a reflex reaction; he’s got a bad habit of running his mouth. His grin drops and he instantly regrets uttering his own name.

“Well, Stiles,” Derek says as his lips curl upwards, “you’ve just become extremely useful to me.”

“What?”

There’s no time to further ponder the implications of that. Stiles activates the crowbar the moment Derek’s arm reaches for him. “I’ll hit you again. I swear I’ll fucking hit you again,” he spits the words out, a surge of bravery washing over his skull. This time he’s not scared.

Derek had survived before.

“Yeah?” Derek asks ominously. His eyebrows raise and his grin deepens, like he’s hiding a secret. It’s a smug expression and Stiles wants to knock it off his face. Derek raises a hand. A red glow radiates from his nails, nails that grow and sharpen before Stiles’ eyes.

Thoughts swim through his mind. Questions and warning flags and sheer terror that he tries to force out of his mouth. They collide all at once, cancelling each other out. Tangling with his tongue and rendering him mute. “What do you want me to do?” he shakes out, finally.

“First, you’re going to help me find my car.”

 -

Stiles sorely regrets his change of heart. Had he just left well enough alone he wouldn’t be driving a monster around town.

How the fuck does the Chief of police’s son get caught up doing that?

“So are you going to tell me what the fuck you are? Or am I going to just melt into a puddle of fear? Because I’m freaking the fuck out and I probably shouldn’t be driving right now,” Stiles asks in a shrill voice.

And really, he shouldn’t be driving. He has got the steering wheel gripped so tightly he wonders if his jeep can _feel_ it. His nerves feel like they’re bent out of his body at awkward angles.

Derek ignores him and says, “Turn a right at the next light.”

“So, like what, is my crowbar some kind of weird creature stick? Is that why you’re fine?” It seems a reasonable guess. Despite obvious colour differences, both his crowbar and the claws on Derek’s hands hold the same strange glow.

“You don’t know what it does?” Derek hisses, “you’re running around the streets with a weapon that you have no knowledge about?”

“You know, I’m not really down for a lecture right now. So just tell me.”

“It’s not the same,” Derek starts, and Stiles grips the wheel tighter, anticipating a simple answer that will get him nowhere. But Derek continues. “It’s like it’s the same energy. But yours is laced with wolfsbane.”

“Energy?” Stiles’ injured palm aches from the pressure he’s placing on the wheel. But he doesn’t let up. He can’t let up. Not when he’s being thrown further and further into confusion. “Is that what that was? Energy?”

When Derek doesn’t respond, Stiles pulls sharply to the side of the road. The front wheels of the jeep hop the curb and jostle them in their seats.

“I’m not driving any farther until you tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” Stiles stresses, “and go ahead, kill me. You’re going to anyway, right? Let’s get this over with.”

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes, “That’s a bit melodramatic.”

Stiles’ mouth drops and his eyebrows knit together. “You know what else is melodramatic? Kidnapping someone at freaking claw point!”

“We have an energy,” Derek states, “it manifests itself physically. That’s why there’s a glow.”

“We?” Stiles asks. He narrows his eyes for a moment, and then a sudden realization flushes into his face.

Wolfsbane. _Wolfs-fucking-bane_.

Stiles knows the plant; it’s all over the preserve, dappling the woods with purple blooms. And it’s the Argent’s flower of choice, if their logo is any indicator. But that isn’t why he’s gawking at Derek. Wolfsbane is also an integral part of missions in one of the video games he plays. One of the games with supernatural elements.

“You’re a werewolf?” It sounds more like a statement than a question, but it’s breathless all the same.

Something flickers in Derek’s eyes. A dark flash that’s halfway between annoyed and impressed. An acknowledgement.

“Of course,” Stiles laughs miserably. The answer should leave him more panicked than before. But instead it blankets him in a state of exhaustion. He can’t wrap himself around the concept. Werewolves aren’t supposed to exist. And they certainly aren’t supposed to glow.

“Are you an android?”

Derek scrunches up his face and shakes his head, seeming to have taken offence to that. “No.”

“So. Do you like howl at the moon and shit?” Stiles asks, letting bravado take cruise control. There’s still a waver in his throat, barely shaking his words. “Piss on fire hydrants?” That one earns him a glare. He shrugs defensively, “I’m just wondering.”

Derek doesn’t answer and Stiles has a feeling twenty questions is a no-go. He reignites the engine, and pulls away from the curb in resumed silence.

For the next minute Stiles tries to make sense of his situation. He compiles a list of all he knows about werewolves. Which isn’t a whole lot. But if his knowledge of pop culture is anything to go off of, it’s that wolfsbane is poisonous to werewolves.

“What did it do to you?” he motions to the backseat, where the weapon now lies.

“It made me sick,” Derek grits through his teeth with an obvious distaste for the previous night’s events. “Inhibited my sight. I was disorientated, which is why I didn’t come after you. It slows down the healing process.” There’s a pause. “Don’t even try it.”

He can feel Derek’s eyes on him. Stiles shoots him a glance and finds Derek is staring intently at the dressing on his injured hand.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Derek shrugs, a wickedly satisfied look flourishing across his face, “just serves you right.”

“You were going to hurt me!” Stiles exclaims and presses harder against the steering wheel. He recoils at the sudden flash of pain. The gash has given way, bleeding feebly.

“No I wasn’t,” Derek shakes his head and chuckles breathlessly. There’s a thick condescending manner to his laughter, and it only drives Stiles further up the wall.

“Could have fooled me with the way you grabbed my throat.”

“I didn’t grab your throat. I grabbed your shirt,” Derek corrects. “I wanted to know why you were smashing up Argent machines." It sounds like the truth.

Stiles almost smiles. No one besides him, Scott, and Isaac refer to bots as machines. It’s considered a derogatory term for them, which seems foolish because they’re insentient. They’re really called A-Units. But Stiles thinks that sounds ridiculous and pretentious. “You’re not really good at communicating properly then.”

Derek sighs and a glare flashes back into his eyes. “It’s not a warm welcome home when machines are trying to kill you.”

“So it was you,” Stiles says, “you triggered that shit-storm.” This time, he can’t stop the grin that creeps across his face. A sense of pride rushes over him. He had actually figured it out.

Derek nods and stares ahead.

“Why? Why would they go after you?”

“That’s what I want to find out. And that’s why I need your help.”

Stiles opens his mouth and is about to ask what that entails when he spots two familiar figures ahead on the side of the road. It's Scott and Isaac, he realizes, as the jeep draws closer. Which makes sense, they’re mere blocks away from the Lahey household.

Isaac is hunched over the curb, hands balled into fists through his hair and Scott kneels just behind him, a hand placed on his shoulder. Stiles’ fingers twitch on the wheel, fighting back the urge to pull over. Derek senses the small movement, alarm filling his eyes when he spots the reason for it.

“You better not,” he warns sternly while shaking his head.

But the warning is in vain because in a quick moment Stiles is turning the wheel, tires screeching to a halt beside his friends. They jump and scurry backwards across the sidewalk, stunned like a pair of deer. Stiles rolls down the window, looking past Derek’s angry face to the shocked ones of Scott and Isaac.

“Get in, Scott,” he calls. Scott begins to protest but Stiles cuts him off, “just get in!”

They clamber into the backseats. Isaac is a little more eager than Scott, pushing past him and tumbling into the seat behind Stiles.

“Is that Derek Hale?” Scott asks in a quiet voice. There’s a huff from the passenger side and Stiles can feel Derek’s eyes singeing into his skin.

“I’m being kidnapped by a monster,” Stiles blabs hurriedly. The words come out uncontrolled and messy, but to the point.

“And you thought it was a good idea to invite us?” Scott asks. His hand is on the door and he’s readying himself to leave. Both he and Stiles start a vocal war, interrupting each other before they can really get started.

“Can we just stop arguing for a moment,” Isaac’s barely audible voice breaks though their sharp words.

Stiles looks over his shoulder. Isaac sits with his head lolled back against the head rest. Drying blood cakes his lower lip. It’s thickest near the left corner where a wide split mars the flesh. Stiles’ eyes wander up the Isaac's face to his right cheek, puffy and red with the flowering of a nasty bruise. He takes in heavy and sharp breaths and at first Stiles thinks Isaac is crying. However, there’s a softness to his face. Isaac is relieved.

“Isaac,” Stiles is stunned, “what happened?”

“My dad caught me coming in this morning, again,” Isaac laughs, trying to mask his pain. He brings his teeth over his lip and Scott hisses something about how the bleeding will start up again.

Stiles can’t help but feel guilty. After all, it’s his fault for dragging them out that morning. And the night before. Despite that, he doesn’t apologize. At least not out loud. He gives Isaac a repentant look, to which he receives a small nod.

“So what’s going on? I thought you killed him?” Isaac asks, nodding towards Derek. It’s obvious he no longer wants to linger on his busted face.

“Yeah, I thought I did too,” Stiles grumbles with regret and shoots a side-glance at Derek, who is now frowning out at the street instead of trying to incinerate him with his eyes. “And aside from the kidnapping I’m not really sure what’s happening, because he’s _not saying anything_.”

“When we get to my car I’ll tell you,” Derek grates, clearly not overjoyed at their sudden company. One has to wonder if he enjoys anything.

Stiles mocks him silently and revs up the engine, pulling back out into traffic. He doesn’t mention Derek being a werewolf because he’s not sure how to bring it up. Chances are, Derek would either deny it or kill them.

Maybe both.

For the next block, Stiles entertains the idea of asking Scott to pass the crowbar up. Maybe he could hit him again, maybe catch him off guard. He doesn’t get the chance to put his plan into action because Derek jerks up in his seat and nods towards an upcoming alley. Stiles turns the wheel sharply, tucking into the narrow road. He nearly hits the car parked obtrusively near the entrance. They all lurch forward at the sudden brake and Derek huffs out severely catching himself with a hand on the dash. Stiles ignores him, turns the ignition off, and hops out. The rear doors open, and his friends are about to follow, but Derek stops them.

“Not you two.”

Stiles nearly bites his tongue.

Derek’s car is low to the ground, so low it seems like it’s kissing the cement. Stiles realizes it’s a hover model – a Camaro – and stares wide-eyed at Derek who just gives him a confused look in return. It’s black, with a sleek design and he estimates it can’t be more than a year old. Expensive, very expensive.

“What are you thinking?” Derek exhales harshly and reaches into his pocket. The interior of the car springs to life with a cyan fluorescence. The doors give an audible click.

“I don’t trust you,” Stiles admits pointedly, “and I think you’re less likely to kill me with witnesses.”

 _Or he’ll kill all of us_ , Stiles reminds himself bitterly. He hadn’t really thought this through.

Derek shakes his head exhaustedly and leans into the vehicle, pulling out a thin, rectangular device. An aged tablet. Stiles used to have one just like it, before retiring the piece of junk in favour of a newer generation.

“This is why I’m here,” Derek says, powering on the device and facing it towards Stiles. On the screen is a stylized stem of aconite: the Argent’s logo.

“I don’t follow,” Stiles says with a raised brow.

There’s importance in the picture. There must be, otherwise Derek wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble. Currently, Stiles isn’t thinking too highly of the guy, but he’s guessing Derek isn’t one to waste time.

“This was my sister’s. It survived the fire. I didn’t look at it for eight years. But last week I charged it and turned it on. This was the last picture downloaded.”

“So?”

“There’s no reason for this to be on here,” Derek stresses, “I can’t think of any reason why Laura would be interested in the Argent logo. I thought maybe there would be something at the house-”

“You think they had something to do with the fire,” Stiles cuts Derek's words off short.

Derek nods once, eyes intense with certainty.

“You never mentioned this to the police?” A jolt of anger resonates through Stiles’ body.

His father had slaved over this case. Endless nights of effort poured into his work, trying to tie together loose ends that just wouldn’t hold. There had been enough on their plates at the time, and yet his father continued to hunch himself over the table, day after day.

“It wasn’t considered evidence.”

Derek dusts his fingers over the screen and the tablet goes dark. He throws it lightly into the back of the car and then motions for Stiles to sit in the driver’s seat.

“Are you mad?” Stiles exclaims shrilly.

“My vision’s still spotty,” Derek says.

“So this entire time, I could have just thrown you out of my vehicle and you would have been stuck? And I could have enjoyed my afternoon?” It certainly isn’t afternoon now, the sky has sidled into the evening. Stiles’ hands ball into shaking fists at his sides and he doesn’t wait for an answer, “You know what? No. Sleep it off and then drive yourself.”

He’s almost at the door of his jeep when curiosity tugs him back. If not for Argent driving the police force into the ground, Stiles would probably be trying to nab one of the coveted researching positions. He has always had an almost animalistic need for information. And not only the information itself, but the process of obtaining it. He thinks of his father, a tired mess of a man looking over countless reports about a fire that left a kid’s life in ruins.

And then there's the danger. Stiles hates the way he piques his interest, how it tingles across his skin and beckons him.

“Change of plans,” Stiles says to a confused Isaac and a baffled Scott. He chucks his keys to Scott, “follow us.”

“What’s going on?” Scott asks.

“I’m not sure yet.”


	3. Want

Stiles remembers the Hale house. It was one of the most contemporary mansions in Beacon Hills. Ultra-modern in its architecture, it stood proudly atop a hill at the edge of the city. Sometimes he and his father would drive by it and he would just barely make out the detailing of the building – a mash-up of white brick and dark hardwood. It had one of those underground garages apparently, however, Stiles had never gotten that close. From the road he could see that there were windows, large ones that spanned across the whole house. But majority of the time, metal shutters blocked out the world, and thoroughly hid the inside contents. Stiles understands now they were probably locked during the fire.

It’s haunting, the thought of being trapped in a place full of windows, with no possible escape.

As they drive up the hill, a much different house stands in its place. Charred remains of the once beautiful house comes into view; it’s still standing, but the mansion is decrepit and wounded in multiple places. And from the driveway, he can see that the garage has caved in on itself.

Despite how eager Derek had been to get there, he sits silently in the passenger seat as they edge their way onto the property. Stiles turns the engine of the Camaro off and the car lowers to the ground.

Derek had made a cheap comment earlier on about how he was surprised Stiles needed no assistance in starting the vehicle. But hover cars are popular with the force, and Stiles has had his fair share in learning how they work.

He turns and looks at Derek, who simply stares ahead at the house. His eyes are wide and hold a sort of surprise within them. And his lips almost tremble like they’ve been shaken with a sudden flood of recollection.

For a moment, Stiles feels terrible. Sure, he’s been taken against his will and threatened multiple times. But Derek’s stuck in some memory from eight years ago and the pain emanating from him softens Stiles a bit.

Stiles opens the door and slides out, turning to the end of the driveway where Scott and Isaac have just pulled up in the jeep. They hop out and start towards him.

“Are we going in?” Scott asks with uncertainty.

Stiles shrugs, “I’m waiting for his move.” He nods towards the Camaro and is caught off guard when out of the corner of his eye, he finds it empty. Stiles looks over his shoulder. Derek is already making for the door of the house. “Guess we’re going in.”

They follow, keeping a good distance behind. Derek pauses at the door, dusting his finger over an old identifying system. It doesn’t work – there’s no way for it to – but he holds his hand there. And then he begins ramming his body into the door with full force.

Stiles can almost imagine a younger version of the Derek he sees in front of him, doing the same thing. Trying to get to the family he knew he'd already lost.

Behind Stiles, Scott gives out a small squeak. It takes Derek a few tries but finally the door gives way. He takes a step inside and the house engulfs him. Stiles looks back to Scott and Isaac, gives a shrug, and they all follow.

Once inside, they can barely make out the silhouette of Derek ahead of them. The house is dark and the only source of light is from the freshly risen moon, breaking through the crumbling roof. Directly to their right is a den. Light shines over objects in the room – remnants of a happy home that lay in disaster. Frames hang crookedly on the walls; the pictures long since curled up and wilted from flames. From what Stiles can see – much of the furniture still stands, weakly – the interior of the house had been modern too.

Turning his attention ahead once more, Stiles narrows his eyes at the sight of a faint red glow at the tips of Derek’s hands. Isaac and Scott notice it too, because they both voice their concern at the same time – oddly in sync.

“Why are his hands glowing?”

“We need to go,” Stiles demands hurriedly. He tugs on his friend’s arms, but they stand with their feet firmly rooted to the floor, mesmerized. “Seriously you guys, we need to go.”

“Why?” Scott asks as he shrugs Stiles’ grip off.

“He’s a werewolf, and I’m pretty sure–“ Stiles cringes at the sound of glass breaking and looks up to Derek standing over a broken frame. “That he’s raging and we’re going to get caught up in it.” Outing Derek in such a tactless way isn’t particularly the route he’d wanted to take. But it’s better than being eaten alive.

“A werewolf?” Scott’s voice breaks into that higher octave again. “Werewolves aren’t real, Stiles!”

Stiles nods, “This morning I would have agreed. But it all adds up. The Argent’s logo is wolfsbane. We play enough video games to know what that does to werewolves. The Argent’s machines let out some creepy ass code last night, two-nine-five. Know what happens every twenty-five and a half days?” He waits for a guess that doesn’t come. “The full moon. The full _fucking_ moon.”

Scott has a look about him and it’s clear he doesn’t know what to believe. “Why did you bring us here then? Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

Stiles shrugs and tries to cover a sudden wave guilt. “Because if I did, you wouldn’t have come. And I’d much rather us all go down as the three musketeers? Look, I wasn’t thinking.”

“I didn’t know you meant a literal monster,” Isaac says.

“I think we should leave,” Stiles repeats and receives conflicted expressions from them, “what? He wanted us to bring him here. He’s here. Our job is done.”

“No it’s not,” Derek’s raw voice sounds from the hallway and he staggers closer. “I still need your help.”

“What now?”

“The Argents had something to do with this.” The claws at the end of his fingers disappear for a moment, hidden in his clenched fists. “I need you to get me proof. Your father is Chief Stilinski. You clearly have access to the records,” Derek reaches into his pocket and shakes the balled up wad of paper in Stiles’ face. “I need you to find out whatever you can, see if anyone from Argent is in the system.”

“Wait,” Stiles starts, eyes narrowing, “did you bring me here with the expectation that I was going to join you or something? Because that is sort of something you should bring up in like, the first five minutes of meeting someone.”

“Wolves work better in packs,” Derek points out, “you probably already knew that.”

And maybe Stiles had known. Maybe there had been a soft little thought at the back of his mind, hidden beneath all the information that had flooded over him. If it hadn’t been clear before, it is now.

Derek has revenge in mind – of the physical variety – and he doesn’t have plans of going about it alone.

“You _are_ a werewolf,” Scott utters in amazement, and Derek shoots him an annoyed glance that effectively silences him.

“So what, you’re going to turn us? We don’t get a say in this?” Stiles asks defiantly.

“You have a say.”

“Then I’m saying no,” Stiles says, shaking his head, “I want to be able to walk the streets and not get hounded by machines that are out to get me.”

“If you don’t shift, like I did, near them, you’ll be fine,” Derek states. “You’d be strong, Stiles. Stronger than any human. You wouldn’t need that crowbar. You’d have the energy right at your fingertips. I know you don’t like Argent, otherwise you wouldn’t go out and destroy their property.”

Pieces start falling together, and it's suddenly clear to Stiles why his help is so crucial to Derek. He’s got the police department and their records within close proximity – despite how illegal that is. But by now, Derek’s probably figured out doing things the legal way isn’t Stiles' forté . Derek’s also not blind to the fact that Stiles hates Argent. And their hate burns at different heights, but it’s still there. Stiles is basically the perfect hand in a dangerous game.

“No,” Stiles repeats, refusing to play. Refusing to let Derek have his dream deck.

Isaac speaks up and his voice breaks the tension that is so thickly wrapped around them all. “I’ll take that offer.”

“What?” both Stiles and Scott breathe out, turning to their friend with shock written into their features.

“I don’t have much of a choice,” Isaac shrugs. Stiles can only zero in on Isaac’s bruised face. It feels like it’s the abuse talking and not his friend.

Derek gives a small grin, clearly content with the sudden change of plans, and looks to Scott.

“No,” Scott shakes his head profusely, ”this is fucking crazy.”

Derek shrugs and turns to Isaac. “Guess it’s just you and me then.” He steps backwards signalling for Isaac to follow.

“You don’t even know their names!” Stiles exclaims, waving his arms through the air in disbelief.

“Scott,” Derek says, nodding to Scott, “and Isaac. Listening isn’t hard, Stiles.”

And Derek and Isaac move down the stretch of the hollowed out hallway, around a corner, and out of sight.

Stiles feels sick and he’s not exactly sure what to do now. He and Scott stand still in the foyer, neither speaking a word to each other. There’s nothing they can say, at least nothing they can put into words. Stiles tries, but he only ends up choking on his thoughts.

And then, screaming.

A harsh scream slashes through the air with such pain that it nearly knocks both Stiles and Scott backwards. They rush around the corner to the sight of Derek pulling his glow-tinged hand from Isaac’s exposed hip. Isaac nearly topples over onto the floor, but manages to steady himself by grabbing the corner of an island countertop. They’re in the kitchen.

“What did you do to him?” Scott yells, rushing to Isaac’s side. Said side is pulsing red; emanating a red glow similar to how Derek’s skin had when Stiles sent the crowbar into his face.

“That’s how it’s done,” Derek shrugs.

Now Stiles is sure there’s no way he’s doing this.

 -

Scott narrows his eyes as if he’s searching but hasn’t a clue what for. “Stiles, what time is it?” he asks even as he reaches into his own pocket for his phone.

Stiles whips his cell out in seconds, voice defiant, “Eleven-thirty.”

“What?” Scott hisses, “I was supposed to pick up my mom from work a half hour ago. She didn’t even call me…” his voice trails off as he turns the phone over in his hand. He lets out a sigh and turns the phone to Stiles. It’s dark, fresh out of charge.

“We’ll go now,” Stiles says, “I’m sure she’s still there.”

Stiles turns to Isaac, who’s now shamelessly prodding at the mark on his hip. It still pulses with red, duller than before. He has seemingly recovered from the burning pain and Stiles wonders if he’s healing already; if the change is even that quick. Judging from how puffy the wound is, he thinks not.

“Isaac,” Stiles calls and the boy snaps to attention, “are you coming?”

Isaac shrugs. “For what? To go home? I think it’s clear I’m not going home.”

Stiles face softens with sympathy. “You need your stuff.” He licks his chapped lips and finally tastes the sick realization upon his skin that Isaac has really taken Derek's offer. That it somehow marks the end of their friendship.

Isaac nods slowly and stands up hesitantly, his dread of returning home for even a moment is well-defined in the small movement. The three of them start for the door and nearly make it before Derek intercepts them in the foyer. His eyes are wide with a suspicious expression.

“Don’t worry your fuzzy little tail off,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “we’ll return him to you.” He stops, suddenly hit with a bout of uncertainty. “He’s okay for travel right? Like he’s not going to turn and bite our heads off. No offense, Isaac,” he shoots another sympathetic look to Isaac.

Derek huffs and his brows furrow further, if that’s even possible. He gives a short nod. And just like that Stiles is out the door, bounding towards his jeep with a human and near-werewolf trailing behind.

 -

Melissa McCall isn’t on shift when they get to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital and they’re told she left fifteen minutes ago. Scott makes a frustrated sound and kicks at a wall.

“Dude, she probably got a cab,” Stiles reassures him and gives his sleeve a tug, pulling him to the doors and outside.

“Yeah but she shouldn’t have had to,” Scott mumbles guiltily as they climb back into the jeep.

Ever since Scott’s dad walked out, he’s taken the role of being the man of the house very seriously. Letting his mother down isn’t an option.

“I’m sure she’ll understand,” Stiles reasons. Melissa definitely isn’t the type of person to hold something over someone – at least not maliciously.

Stiles knows because a few years back, while spending the night, he drank too much soda – something sickly sweet and utterly disgusting, if he’s honest – and threw up all over the carpet. She’d been angry at first, and sometimes he stills hears about it from time to time, but it’s more a joke now.

Despite her forgiving nature, Stiles is pretty sure Scott will beat himself up about it for a while. Stiles glances at him, sat in the passenger seat and mulling over his need to protect his loved ones. And then to Isaac in the backseat, lost in some current of black and blue memories. He realizes they’re quite the trio of misfits. Actually, he’d realized that a while ago.

Except they weren’t really a trio anymore, were they?

When they reach Scott’s street, something feels wrong. It’s a general unsettling feeling that Stiles can’t pinpoint. That is until a shady character rips out of the building in which Scott lives. It’s a good thing the jeep is moving at a snail’s pace because Scott tears out of the passenger side the second it happens. Stiles forces the vehicle into a screeching hault and both he and Isaac hop out and run after their panic stricken friend.

They don’t hear the cries at first, but once Scott has flashed the card over the light embedded in the door and shoves it open the sound scratches into their ears. The muffled sobs become louder as they climb the staircase and they find Melissa crumpled up on the second landing. Scott dives to her side and questions start pouring out of him. Isaac kneels down, offering her his hand and both he and Scott steady her into a standing position. Words mean nothing to Stiles – it all sounds like a different language. He isn’t even aware of his own fingers dialling numbers on his phone.

 -

The police come – actual police and none of that machine bullshit – and take witness reports from all of them. Chief Stilinski is with them and Stiles guesses it’s because he phoned in the call.

Trembling, Melissa recalls what happened. The mugger had followed her in, cornered her, and took her purse. Melissa, although still severely shaken, swears over and over that she’s alright. And she gets angry as the same questions get rehashed.

“We should go,” his father says when things have quieted down.

“I think I’m going to stay for a bit,” Stiles replies, “I think Scott is shaken up too. And I have to drive Isaac home.”

His father gives him a discerning look but leaves it.

 -

It’s late by the time the police leave. Stiles feels like he should be tired, but the commotion has him riled up and his stomach is upset from it all. The three friends stand just outside the door to Scott’s apartment, where the sound of bath water running drowns out all sounds.

“It’s not your fault,” Isaac says before Scott can blame himself.

“If I had been there to pick her up like I was supposed to, this wouldn’t have happened,” Scott reminds him.

Stiles knows there’s no use in trying to convince him otherwise. They stand in the quiet of the stairwell for several minutes.

“I guess we should go,” Stiles says and Isaac gives a short nod.

Scott follows them down the staircase, mentions something about needing fresh air.

Werewolf matters had left Stiles’ mind but they rush right back in once they step out of the dingy building. A black Camaro sits parked against the curb and leaning against it is Derek. He gives them a knowing look and Stiles has a feeling they were followed from the get go.

“You know Scott, being a werewolf has its benefits,” he says and his eyes flicker up across the apartment building.

Something in Scott changes. It’s a quiet change that doesn’t come easily and Stiles can feel it, can almost pinpoint the exact moment his friend changes his mind. It’s not when Scott looks over his shoulder, up at the building, but when he turns back to face Derek. A sense of despair tangles itself through Stiles’ insides and his heart begins to beat loudly in his ears with the anticipation of an answer he already knows.

“Okay.”

And yet shock still forces Stiles’ jaw to drop. He starts mouthing out muted words. “What?” he manages, just barely.

Scott turns to him, eyebrows pulled together apologetically, “I have to.”

“No you don’t,” Stiles sighs. He runs his palms over his hair in frustration.

“Well I want to. Because if I can stop what happened from happening again, it’s worth it.”

Derek looked to Stiles with a smirk that churns his stomach. For a lone wolf with rotten luck only a night ago, he’s certainly doing well tonight. “Changed your mind?”

“You chased me and kidnapped me,” Stiles points out, “the answer’s no.”

“You hit me with a crowbar,” Derek counters.

“Then that really just proves you’re desperate,” Stiles says numbly. “Not exactly a leadership quality.”

That elicits a dark narrowing of eyes. And Stiles can’t tell if Derek admires him for standing his ground, or if he’s angry about the critique. “Suit yourself, Stiles,” Derek says and then turns to Scott, “okay then.”

And Stiles watches Derek draw away one of his friends for a second time.  Trepidation runs wild in his mind as they round the corner of the apartment complex and out of sight. Isaac says nothing and Stiles makes no attempt at forcing words between them. It’s like he’s on one side of a canyon and they’re on the other; he could scream out, but they wouldn’t hear.

 


	4. Do Androids Dream Of Electric Werewolves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adding tags for one-sided Scott/Isaac. I don't have plans on doing a love triangle. It's in the background anyway, and pushes the plot along at some point. It does. Really.
> 
> Also, as for the title of the chapter, I had to. I had to. I'm a big Philip K. Dick fan, and it's a play on his novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? Which I totally don't own as previously stated.

Stiles whips the crowbar out and lands it into the chest of a bot.

Three weeks have gone by since Isaac and Scott both took Derek’s offer. In those three weeks Stiles has lost his friends to the luxuries and powers said offer brings. It all boils down to Argent. So, Stiles has been running the alleys alone, letting off steam and taking it out on Argent, far more than he ever has before. It’s petty, sure, but Stiles doesn’t care.

Stiles sends the crowbar into another and gurgled words buzz from its body.

It’s lonely attacking machines on his own. Stiles is sensible enough to understand why Scott and Isaac no longer join him. They’ve got to put time into training and learning about what they’ve become and how to control the energy running wild within them.

He’s done his research too, endless nights of reading where he often wakes up sprawled across his keyboard. But it doesn’t mean he has to like it. He tells himself he doesn’t. That he’s only doing it to help Scott and Isaac, who are both too engrossed in their new abilities to pause and actually think about how being werewolves will impact their lives. In all honesty, Stiles thinks it’s sort of fascinating. Otherwise he wouldn’t stay up late, rifling through websites and articles. Acquiring information to feed some curious part of himself. But he won’t admit that freely, refuses to let the whole subject seduce him.

So far he’s learned that the shift can be triggered through heightened emotions. That has come from personal experience with two young werewolves. Stiles has also learned that Derek actually has a good handle on himself. And although they haven’t spent much time with each other, Stiles throws a few insults whenever they do and only receives sharp, annoyed sighs in return. Scott and Isaac, on the other hand, are much more volatile. Especially this past week. At the thought, he dully rubs the bruise on his wrist where Scott had gripped too hard.

He hasn’t been able to figure out anything about the energy coursing through the werewolf trio’s bodies. All he has to go off is Derek’s word. A word which he’s not sure he trusts, yet. It’s a word that barely gives any information at all because Derek doesn’t have much to say.

The energy is similar to what runs in his crowbar – that he knows. Stiles has theorized that there was an origin point, and both types of energy branched from there because both have their differences.

Differences Derek won’t let Stiles test out for obvious reasons.

It’s the source of their power, and it’s also used to turn new werewolves. Stiles had been warned early on not to touch their claws – like Derek _actually_ thought he’d be that stupid – if he was planning on staying human. Even a few particles seeping into his skin from a mere touch could cause the change.

Most importantly, Stiles has been reading up on what happens during the full moon – which is due in a few days. It’s undeniable the werewolves he’s dealing with aren’t exactly the classic monsters he’s seen in film, nor what he’s been reading about. So, he’s not sure if the moon will have any effect. He wishes Derek would just give him all the information upfront, but he’s learned that’s not Derek’s style.

Trial and error will just have to be the way to go in figuring out the differences between electric werewolves – a term Stiles coined himself, to Derek’s displeasure – and normal werewolves. Which was also to Derek’s displeasure because he is a ‘ _normal werewolf_.’

Stiles takes a break because he has destroyed all machines within the small area and crawls atop a railing, balancing on it.

Somewhere – the Hale house – his friends are being thrown around. Teeth bared, claws alight with whatever energy courses through them. They’ve let him in on how training goes. Isaac is flourishing, which is no surprise. Scott, on the other hand, complains often. Which also isn’t shocking. It sounds brutal and Stiles is ever increasingly happy he didn’t join them. His pain tolerance is low.

Suddenly, something leaps beside him with a deafening bang, and he’s being thrown out of his thoughts and to the ground. Stiles screeches out, voice cracking halfway. Which would be embarrassing if he wasn’t terrified.

“Hey buddy!” a lupine face stares down at him with a wild grin. Scott’s lupine face.

It’s strange, seeing his facial features contorted like this. But it’s not as scary as the first time they fully shifted – Scott and Isaac that is. Stiles has yet to see Derek in such a way, and he’s not exactly rearing for a front row seat.

“Scott!” Stiles breathes out, exasperated. “Shift back. Now. You’re lucky I took care of these,” he motions to the metal carnage and staggers upwards.

“Cool it,” Scott laughs as he pulls him the rest of the way, “I made sure.” His face transfigures back to its human state and it’s obvious now that Scott had shifted for the sole purpose of scaring him. Stiles can’t stay mad at him for that because he would have done the same.

“You’re one to lecture us about risky behaviour,” an even voice sounds behind his ear.

“Oh my god!” Stiles creaks out and whips around to face Isaac, who’s only become more skilled in evasiveness. “Don’t do that, Isaac!”

“It’s seven o’clock. It’s dark but it’s not like it’s late,” Isaac continues and grins. The flash of teeth is telling, and Isaac doesn’t need to explain further for Stiles to understand what he’s getting at.

Stiles glances to a heap of metal a few feet away, then back to Isaac. “Since when do you care about responsibility?” he asks, brow raised.

“Don’t,” Isaac admits with a shrug, “just making a point.”

Stiles just shakes his head and turns back to Scott. “So what’s up? Where’s Derek?”

Unlike Isaac, Scott still lives at home. But his time has been divided between pack things, work, and playing loyal guard dog to Melissa, with no room for much else. Most of his free time goes towards pack stuff too, and in three weeks, Derek has been a constant presence the few times they’ve hung out. Derek has even learned where Stiles lives, which Stiles is not happy about.

“Not here,” Scott says, and Stiles feels relieved. Derek looks at him like he’s something to eat. It’s unsettling and probably true. “We thought we’d go to the mall.”

“Wow, spending some free time with me,” Stiles sneers in jest. Sort of.

“We usually do,” Scott says, brows pulling up in confusion – a stupid puppy face.

“Yeah with your chaperone,” Stiles teases, and shoves Scott lightly, “he’s with you all the time!”

“The guy’s lonely,” Isaac says quietly, “can’t blame him, or expect him to stay cooped up all day.”

Stiles sighs and lets a bit of guilt trickle down his conscience. Then he rests the crowbar over his shoulder and sets off for where his jeep is parked.

\- 

Lux Underground sits on the outskirts of downtown, in the wealthier of neighbourhoods. Much of the mall literally is underground, although the two upper levels reach above the street. It’s similar in vein to Warehouse, an underground mall closer to their apartments. But that place has been closed for three years, boarded up and sealed shut.

Lux has done considerably better, attracting folks with money and catering to the riches. But that doesn’t stop rest of the population from walking its marbled lanes of shops. The place has affordable stores as well. It was a popular hangout in high school for Stiles and his friends, and it still is.

Or would be. Hanging out clearly isn’t a thing anymore.

Along its ability to lose people money at the drop of a hat, it’s damn well easy to lose track of time as well because Lux is basically the casino of malls. Artificial light streams through the ceiling windows at all times, a simulation of day time. It screws with the mind and keeps shoppers spending for hours.

So naturally, that’s where they go.

“Where to?” Stiles asks, propping himself up on the rail of the escalator leading down to a food court. The best one in the mall, it has lots of variety and whatnot.

“Beacon Burger,” Scott says surely, “I’ve been craving it all week.”

“Should we get a doggy-bag for Derek?” Stiles asks and Scott nearly chokes on what must be his own spit – or air. It’s a shame Derek isn’t actually there because that would have surely gotten Stiles some reaction.

Scott’s too busy having his fit of laughter to pay attention to stepping off the escalator properly. Isaac reaches out first, newborn senses cluing in faster than Stiles could hope for his own. And yet, Stiles still sees her before Scott, who knocks into her, sending her to the floor. But she doesn’t hit the ground because he reacts quickly and catches her with an arm.

It’s wickedly fast and Stiles doesn’t even see it happening, how Scott gets from point A to point B. And clearly the girl doesn’t either because she’s completely stunned. Her hair, dark and curled, cascades over her face and her cheeks have a rosy tint. Stiles can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or from cosmetics, but it soon grows uneven so he concludes it’s a bit of both.

“I’m so sorry!” they say in unison. What follows is a strange arrangement of words that Stiles can’t quite comprehend. A clumsy exchange in which they keep cutting each other off and then letting out frenzied giggles. It’s almost embarrassing. Almost.

“Allison,” she finally announces and flashes a smile that causes dimples to form in her cheeks. And just like that Scott relaxes.

“Scott,” Scott says, dumbfounded, and then lazily motions to Isaac and Stiles, introducing them as an afterthought.

Stiles can only nod in greeting, because he’s still trying to wrap his head around what just took place. Scott actually got a girl’s name. Not only that, he manages to get her to tag along with them to Beacon Burger.

Allison is a nice enough girl, despite looking like she’s doing promotional marketing for Argent – most of her belongings have the brand’s logo – and conversation comes easily. At least, it comes easily to Stiles. Isaac has taken on hostile body language, separating himself from them. Stiles doesn’t notice at first because he’s too caught up in the ever changing current of topics. But eventually he realizes Isaac hasn’t said a word since uttering his order. Isaac just sits there, tapping impatiently against the edge of the table and Stiles has to stifle the urge to ask what’s wrong right then and there.

After dinner, once they start to wander aimlessly around the mall, Isaac still holds his body in that rigid, uncomfortable way and it becomes the focal point of Stiles’ attention. The question pours out his lips the second Allison and Scott are out of earshot.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks in a hushed voice.

Isaac nods ahead to Scott and Allison. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel good about this.”

Stiles narrows his eyes in confusion. “She seems nice. She likes good music, she likes good television,” Stiles says and then realizes that’s a really foolish way to base someone’s character. “She wasn’t ignoring us,” he points out, “well. I guess she was ignoring you. But that’s your fault.” Suddenly, his eyes go wide and he thinks he knows what Isaac means. “Derek. Is he not going to like this? I mean, I can totally see him going all totalitarian and not letting you even talk to anyone. He hardly lets you talk to me.”

“I don’t know!” Isaac whispers because they’ve caught up with Scott and Allison. “But yeah, I don’t think Derek’s going to be pleased.”

Stiles wants to ask why, but what he hears next gives him his answer.

“Maybe you’d like to go out this Saturday?” Allison asks.

“Yeah, totally,” Scott’s voice comes out mostly smooth, but Stiles can detect the excitement behind it.

Stiles would be happy for his friend, but he doesn’t have time to be. “No you can’t,” he pipes in, rushing in between the two and throwing an arm around Scott’s shoulder.

Scott gives him a look that equally consists of anger and confusion. “Yeah, I can.” He looks back to Allison, expression instantly falling back to a dopey grin.

“Uh, no, you really can’t,” Stiles says and looks to Allison as well, “he can’t.” He tugs Scott away a few feet.

“What the heck are you doing?” Scott whispers angrily, “I just landed a date. I’ve never done that. I’m eighteen, and I’ve never done that.”

Which is true. Both Stiles and Isaac have had short relationships, but Scott has always been on the outside looking in.

“And I’m happy for you, dude, real happy,” Stiles nods, “but it’s the full moon this Saturday.”

Scott’s eyes go wide and what must be a flash of an imaginary situation floods into them. “Oh!” His face falls and he turns around to break the news. “I can’t.”

“Oh,” she seems sad for a moment but her dimples reappear with a smile, “how about Sunday?”

And behind him, Stiles can feel Isaac stiffen.

\- 

“Stiles, I really don’t mind listening to you drone on about Scott and Isaac, but I don’t think I can be seen in public with you.”

Stiles looks up from his drink to the strawberry blonde sitting across from him. Her green eyes cast an incriminating look over his legs. He tracks her gaze with a sudden flush of alarm, and then realizes she’s referring to his sweat pants. Of course Lydia Martin would judge his clothing choices. It’s not like he looks like a slob. The sweats aren’t two sizes too big, they taper at the ankle, and aren’t completely unflattering. They’re lazy, sure. But he’s not a fashion wreck.

And it’s not like they’re at one of the special events she’s dragged him to before, a consolation prize when Jackson isn’t. They’re at the coffee shop off of Valley Road. It’s dimly lit inside, and the main light sources are the white, luminescent tables. Even if it wasn’t dark, a coffee shop is a perfectly reasonable place to wear such an outfit.

He realizes he’s trying to justify wearing a pair of sweats and that feels silly.

“Oh come on,” he sighs.

She raises a brow and her red lips pull into a smirk.

Lydia Martin is somewhat of a fashion-snob. She’s somewhat of an everything-snob. Her family lives in the suburbs, away from the gritty core of the city. They’re wealthy enough to own a personal Argent machine. Which is a shame, because Stiles believes she’d be awesome at tearing the things apart.

Underneath her primed exterior is a wickedly smart and calculated young woman. She’s as cold as she is beautiful. And she certainly has the skills to damage technology. Stiles knows because it’s the reason they became friends in the first place. Although they could have easily became enemies.

A few years back he’d travelled haphazardly through the school servers on his own computer in class. It hadn’t felt haphazard at the time, but that was because he had no idea someone had planted a virus that would soon demolish half of the students’ computers. And of course, he had been one of the unlucky ones. Then he found out Lydia had done it. It had been an accident, really; she just wanted to know if it could be done. And Stiles being Stiles, had to figure out how she did it. Soon he was witness to all she could do. He watched her progress from the naïve experimenter into someone who could very well be dangerous if given the right materials.

The girl has hacker’s fingers; she can weave digital webs with them, and take down others just as easily.

Looking back, it was a pretty strange foundation for a friendship, but aside from Scott and Isaac, it’s one of the strongest he has.

“Then again, sometimes I wonder why I’m still friends with you, fashion aside,” she begins absently. Stiles isn’t sure what is coming. “Considering you made out with my boyfriend.”

Stiles sighs, dropping his face into his palms. An estimated guess would be that Lydia and Jackson are on the outs. Which seems to happen frequently since Jackson is down in San Francisco. “That was a year ago,” Stiles says, “and besides, he kissed me. And, he was on Lucid, so he can’t be held responsible either.”

Stiles shivers at the thought of Jackson actually wanting to kiss him. Not that Jackson is bad looking, but, _ew_.

“Yeah,” Lydia draws out the word, thinking. “I guess I should be thanking you for that. I found out he took it and put a stop to it,” she says, and her posture improves.

And she should be thanking him. Lucid is a highly addictive drug that causes wild hallucinations. Ones that the user can warp to their liking, if they have enough control. It wraps itself around the mind of the user, and becomes nearly impossible to unravel.

Most of the time, users seem content with wasting away, dancing in their minds with their eyes glazed over like they’re seeing the world clearly. It’s haunting to see, because they’re not seeing the world at all but the reality they’ve distorted, and just the thought sends shiver up Stiles’ spine.

Some look happy, but others just look like they’re drowning in despair. Most gather in the Industrial district, a worse for wear area of Beacon Hills. It’s definitely an area that makes him grateful for his own dingy neighbourhood. And while the crime is high, it’s Lucid users that scare him most. And they shouldn’t, they don’t really do much.

But sometimes they do. Sometimes they walk around, chasing a thought that gets away from them, completely losing themselves in the world they’ve brandished. That’s what Jackson had done. They’re a danger to themselves and others, when they lose that control.

Luckily, Jackson hadn’t been too idiotic. In Jackson’s defense, he had had Lydia on the mind. Stiles knows because he said so right before their lips met. Stiles guesses it was a compliment.

“Anyway, I think it’s great Scott’s got a girl in tow,” Lydia says, bringing him out of the memory. “It was starting to get a bit much with just boys.”

His phone stutters across the table, ringing out a generic ring tone. It sends them both into a small jump and Stiles reaches over and grabs it. The screen reads: Scott. Stiles toys with the idea of answering, but instead silences the thing and sets it back down on the table.

“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asks, peering over the table to look at the dimming screen.

“No,” he says defiantly and leans back in his chair.

“But it’s Scott,” she says slowly. Her eyebrows arch up and she stares at him accusingly.

Stiles nods. “I know.” He avoids her eyes now, opting for the window behind her. Advertisements flash across it, obscuring the dark street.

“Answer it, because I’m not listening to you complain about how you didn’t.”

Stiles can’t help it and his eyes flash to hers. He holds her gaze for a moment. It’s knowing and so right, but he wishes it wasn’t. He picks up the phone, and begrudgingly answers it.

“What are you doing?” Scott asks before Stiles can even say hello.

“Hanging out with Lydia,” Stiles mutters and then makes a point of saying, “haven’t seen her in a while.” Which is a total lie.

“Derek wants you to come by.”

Stiles groans and he knows Derek can probably hear him over the phone – something else he had read and then put to the test. Werewolves totally have superhuman hearing. Doesn’t mean he whispers insults under his breath; no, he’ll say those quite loud.

“Come on, for me,” Scott puts on some sort of voice that would translate into puppy eyes, were they face to face.

Somehow, being a werewolf enhanced that too. Because it’s hard to resist.

-

The door swings open when Stiles pushes, damaged from when Derek bulldozed his force into it. Nothing has changed since his last visit. The foyer is as burned out as before.

“I’m here,” he calls out bitterly. Scott and Isaac are there in seconds, more than likely having been alerted by the sound of his jeep. “Going to give me the grand tour?”

Stiles hadn’t ventured far into the house that first night, and he hasn’t been back since. They walk down the hall, lined with all those memories lost to the fire. Isaac and Scott both trade off talking about their own memories they’ve already made.

They enter what Stiles assumes is the kitchen. There’s glass on the floor and he chalks it up to Scott and Isaac getting too rambunctious, but he supposes it could have been from the fire. Tall windows stretch across wall, overlooking a vast yard. Isaac bounds towards them, skillfully dodging the glass in a dance Stiles can’t quite follow, and out a sliding door.

“This is the pool,” he says and Stiles looks at the empty rectangular hole. Derek is sitting off to the side, staring up at the light-polluted sky.

“We’re thinking of putting some water in it,” Scott says, and there’s too much excitement in his voice for it to be a joke.

“I see you’re running a discreet organization, Derek,” Stiles calls out to the poolside, and Derek flinches slightly.

“Shut up, Stiles,” he growls just loud enough for his human hearing to catch.

Stiles raises his hands in mock defense. “So what am I here for, because I sort of was looking forward to just curling up and playing videogames in my bed.”

In seconds Derek is in front of him, annoyance burning in his eyes. “I need your help.”

“Pretty sure I made it clear I’m not part of your pack,” Stiles grits out, holding his ground despite the shaking in his legs. He catches a glimpse of Scott and Isaac in his peripheral vision. Maybe he isn’t part of Derek’s pack, but his friends are. And they’re also part of his own, in a way. “What?”

It takes a second for Stiles to register that Derek has pushed by him. He leads him back into the house, past the broken dishes, talking as he does. “Tomorrow night is the full moon.”

Stiles nods, regardless of the fact that Derek is ahead and can’t actually see that he understands.

“Argent will no doubt send out more machines. They’ll be on the lookout. I need you to be on the lookout too.”

“What am I going to gather from a bunch of machines?”

“Nothing,” Derek replies as if it is an obvious statement, “you’re going to be looking for anything out of the ordinary.”

Stiles stops and lets his mouth hang open in a perplexed manner. “What’s out of the ordinary for you? Because, if you haven’t noticed, everything is out of the ordinary right now. It’s so out of the ordinary that I probably couldn’t tell you what’s normal and what’s not.”

“People, Stiles,” Derek says pointedly and turns to face him. He’s got that look on his face, the one he gives when Stiles doesn’t understand. And usually such a look would make Stiles feel small and stupid, but it’s not his fault Derek’s so cryptic in everything he says. He learned early on not to let it get to him. “Look for people who have weapons, people who are sneaking around. Different machines. I don’t know.”

_So basically it’s a case of I’ll know when I see it_ , Stiles thinks, sourly.

“Fine,” Stiles says after a moment. It could be fun playing detective. “Do you want a constant feed of updates?”

For a moment, Derek says nothing, then he holds out his hand. Stiles drops his phone into it and at once Derek is tapping away.

“Wait. Are you even going to be able to get texts? What with the whole going _crazy_ thing?” He air quotes on crazy, and the word brings a hypothetical image to his head: his friends running rampant, causing destruction under the glow of the moon. He still hasn’t solidified any theory about the full moon and its effects. And he’s not keen to the idea of figuring it out firsthand.

“What are you going to do with them,” Stiles nods over his shoulder to the window where the Scott and Isaac talk outside.

Derek hands the phone over and walks towards another room, and Stiles takes that as his cue to follow. When he rounds the corner, Derek is descending the steps of a dark staircase. Stiles blindly stumbles after him, smacking into Derek’s back when he stops abruptly. Derek gives a grunt and Stiles reminds him he can’t see as well in the dark. The sound of a code being pressed into buttons surprises Stiles, as does the sound of a door opening.

What shocks him most is the well lit room standing before him.

“We kept a separate power source, in case of blackouts on full moons,” Derek explains before Stiles has the chance to ask how. “I wasn’t sure if it would work, but it does. So you don’t have to worry. Scott and Isaac will be fine.”

Derek immediately steps into the room and makes for the far wall. Stiles, however, stays where he stands, letting the light pour over himself for a few seconds before trailing after Derek’s long strides. The room is nearly completely white, and has a strange surgical feel to it. The wall to his right has vertical lines etched into it. Doors. And each one has a label like food, or water. They’re in a panic room.

When Stiles reaches him again, Derek is tapping against the wall. At first Stiles thinks he’s just carrying out some nervous habit, but then he sees there are numbers faintly lighting up with each press. The password pad is seamlessly camouflaged into the wall. And for good reason. Doors, as equally disguised as the pad, slide apart from each other revealing a new room.

This room is lined with chambers.

Each chamber is separated, armoured with what must be extremely strong glass. The room, white like the one Stiles stands in, is spotless and shows no signs of the destruction that must have taken place.

“Did you,” Derek begins and it’s like he’s unsure where he’s going with his question, “look up anything about the fire?”

Of course Stiles has. It’s how he knows the panic room had been hacked, locking out the Hales from safety. That was the main reason why Derek had been suspected of the fire. The police had to come in and reset the password.

For a split second Stiles wonders how Derek figured out what it had been changed to, and a chill creeps over his body. But he quickly remembers that he’d handed over the reports when they first met.

However, the reports mentioned nothing of this room – the _true_ panic room. He doesn’t want to admit he knows about the hacking to Derek. Doesn’t want to help Derek. But he reminds himself he’s here to help his friends.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, “but before you go asking, no I don’t know anything other than what’s been printed in news articles and police reports. So you probably know as much as I do.”

Maybe it’s a bit harsh, but Derek leaves it, and Stiles does too.

When he’s about to leave, hours later, Derek stops him in the foyer.

“About tomorrow. They’re going to be careful, if they go out. They’ll be stealthy. That means you need to be on your A-game.”

Stiles scoffs, “I’m always on my A-game. Machine bashing is what I do best.”

Derek chuckles and shakes his head and it has Stiles feeling patronized. Like he’s been left out of a joke. “No machine bashing. You’re spying on them. Drawing attention to yourself isn’t a good way to about that. It’s actually really stupid.”

\- 

T.V. dinner never tasted so good; never tasted so bad either. It’s the same every time, tasteless, dry chemicals on a plate. But Stiles is particularly lazy tonight, or rather, he’s just not in the mood for cooking up an extravagant meal. He sits, feet up on the coffee table, watching the idiot box. That’s what people used to call the television, and he supposes they still could if they had an archaic cube sitting in the living room. Their TV is mounted into the wall – heck, it is the wall. At least a portion of it. So not really a box.

It’s seven o’clock and not nearly time to go on his little mission. If Derek hadn’t explicitly said not to bash up the machines, Stiles would have been out of his house the second the sun went down.

There’s a rummaging at the door that brings him out of his television-induced stupor. He looks up to door swinging open, revealing his father with a grocery bag in hand.

“Feet,” he says expectantly.

“What?” the question momentarily confuses Stiles, until his dad swings the bag into his leg. He retracts them, knees bending up to his chest. “Sorry.”

His father walks by and to the kitchenette, unloading milk into the fridge and cans of food into the cupboards. Stiles spots cream of corn, which he thinks is disgusting.

“Got any movies saved?” his father asks absent-mindedly while packing away the remainder of the groceries.

“Huh?” Stiles asks.

“I have the night off, Argent is testing a big batch tonight, thought we could watch a movie.” His dad takes the couch adjacent to the one Stiles is sitting on.

“I’m hanging out with Scott and Isaac later,” Stiles replies, trying to hide his lie behind a sturdy tone.

“Oh,” his father’s happy expression falls, just slightly. He’s skilled at hiding his disappointment but Stiles is even more skilled at detecting it. “That’s fine.”

What Stiles wants to say is: _You know what, no, let’s watch a movie. Scott and Isaac are werewolves and I don’t want to get mixed up in their business._ But that wouldn’t go over well.

So instead he says, “Yeah, maybe another time?”

He’s not sure where the guilt straining in his throat comes from. He’s lied to his father before, bent his words until they hardly resembled the truth. But the lies were never so blatant. And he had never used them to get out of hanging out.

Maybe that was why, because for the first time he truly feels as though he is sneaking behind his father’s back. And the lie isn’t even his own.

Five minutes go by, which Stiles spends feeling conflicted. Then he gets up and heads for his room.

“Going out the back,” Stiles says as nonchalantly as possible. The back being the fire escape. It’s not like it’s an odd thing to do, but everything feels like a crime.

To twist the knife further, his father tells him to have a good time. It’s not said on purpose to hurt him, it’s a genuine sentence. But it still causes Stiles’ muscles to seize up in shame.  

\- 

If Stiles didn’t have a distaste for Derek before, he’s pretty sure he does now. He sits, knees to his chest, atop a garbage bin in a narrow passage near the core of the city. He feels like a gargoyle, locked in stone and unable to move. Stiles wants to leap off and whack a few machines into the cement, release some of the negativity instilled in his body. But Derek had forbid it, which only increases the urge.

Machines had streamed into the streets earlier than the other nights. They travel in small groups and he’d passed quite a few pods of them on his way to this stakeout location. He now watches them from his perch as they wheel past in pursuit of werewolves.

Instantly, Stiles is tugged into fear for his friends. Derek had said the panic room was secure and that his family used it for years. But he can’t shake the worry for Isaac and Scott, on their first full moon, no less. And maybe – _just maybe_ – there’s concern for Derek too. Even though he’d assured Stiles he could control his shifts. If he couldn’t, Stiles would be responsible for Isaac and Scott.

Nothing happens for hours, and Stiles feels an antsy energy growing within himself as the minutes tick by. He listens as carefully and attentively as he can, but with only the regular sounds of robot garble and ordinary citizens meeting his ears, his interest dwindles. He raps his knuckles against the lid of the bin, checks his phone endlessly. He kills some time texting Lydia but eventually she gets sidetracked by Jackson who vis-calls to make-up after whatever fight they’d had.

Stiles decides to text Derek, a simple “ _Stilinski to Electric, nothing new here_.” No response comes, but that’s not surprising because his texts have been ignored all night.

So he’s left with boredom itching relentlessly at his mind. He so desperately wants to bash one of the machines rolling by. But his task is to observe, not participate, so he holds his ground. For the next few minutes at least.

The dullness of the evening is leeching away his life and his limbs are growing restless. Stiles feels like a child in a candy store who’s been explicitly told not to eat anything. It would only be for a minute, half a minute even. His need to do something overrides Derek’s orders and his fingers brush over the groove. The crowbar burns to life.

_I’m in the alley, it’s fine_ , he tells himself, and then brings the weapon down into the face of an oncoming machine. It triggers a chain of others, spouting out “8-4” and “stop citizen.”

Stiles is on his fourth when the sound of voices alert him.

“Something’s going on over there!” a male voice calls and footsteps hit pavement. They grow louder by the second, closing in on the alley.

Stiles slams his whole hand on the groove in a panicked manner and scrambles down the way, as fast and silently as he can. He throws himself sideways into the safety of a crevice. His speed aids in his crash with the brick wall. It meets his shoulder with such force and surprise that he can’t help the sharp intake of air; it’s brisk tonight, and the cold dries his throat instantly. Stiles presses himself against the brick, trying to stifle his heavy breaths brought on by the sudden anxiety. There’s not much room where he stands, and one misstep could give his hiding place away.

He strains his ears over the sound of his pulse, ravaging his hearing just as loudly as his breathing does. Whoever spoke is at the edge of the alley, and a pair of footsteps joins them.

“Do you think–“ the male voice is cut off by a female.

“No,” she sounds disappointed, like she’s been let down. “The impact was blunt, see? Look.” Metal scrapes across the pavement and the sound screeches uncomfortably into his ears. For a moment, a fraction of a second, the exchange perplexes Stiles, but it doesn’t take long to put two and two together.

“One of those stupid kids, maybe the same ones that have been attacking these for a while,” she continues with a sigh. Stiles smirks to himself. Their handiwork had been noticed. “I won’t hesitate to shoot, I’m not taking chances, not tonight.” Her voice gets louder, an open threat to whoever is running the streets. A threat to him.

Suddenly, a blast of purple light drives past him and farther down the alley. It’s close and he can feel the intensity of the energy as it shoots by. Stiles covers his mouth, biting away and drowning out the startled noise that leaves his lips. Somewhere along the line of panicked thoughts and forcing himself to listen, Stiles forgets to breathe. Even when the footsteps get quieter and disappear, he doesn’t inhale until his lungs are screaming at him.

Stiles wastes no time tearing out of there as quickly as possible. The moon hangs swollen in the sky and he follows it home. Clumsily, he texts Derek a quick run-through because Derek will be wanting to hear about this. There’s no safety in these streets. Not for a werewolf, not even for an actual human being.


	5. Animal Magnetism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief POV change at the beginning of the chapter. Mostly because I didn't want things to come out of nowhere. This is be the only time POV changes occur.

“The lunatic’s still out there,” the woman says, kicking her boots up onto the oak table. Her voice is lightly annoyed and her face, framed by caramel locks, mirrors it well. She stares expectantly at her brother, lips drawn into a tight line.

“We didn’t find any, for all we know they left the city,” her brother points out.

Absently, she plays with her fingernails, as if uninterested by the whole ordeal. “Unless they’re hiding.”  Her eyes flash up to his, “I think it’s time we pay the Hale house a visit.”

-

Stiles wakes to the incessant ringtone of his phone, blaring loudly in his ear with its plead to be answered. He grabs for it and clumsily, not even realizing he’s just answered a vis-call in his sleepy haze. It’s not that Stiles hates visual calls, he just prefers not to make them this early in the morning. Especially when they’re from Derek Hale.

“You need to get over here, ASAP, and tell me exactly what happened,” Derek’s eyes are alight with urgency and Stiles notes he’s looking considerably well for someone who probably got next to no sleep.

Stiles doesn’t have the energy to reply. It’s lost somewhere between his initial grogginess and the sudden rush of adrenaline forcing him to take a shower, eat a menial breakfast, and run out the door.

It’s the first time he’s driven to the Hale property during the day, and he can see the haze of pollution blanketed over the city. While in Beacon Hills, he’s never really noticed it before. He looks out at the buildings for a few seconds, before slipping out of the Jeep.

“Where were you last night?” Stiles asks, the second he’s stepped into the house, “I was going crazy after it happened.”

The three of them are in the foyer already. Derek stands in the middle of the room, and behind him, Scott and Isaac; the full moon didn’t treat either of them well. They’ve got dried blood flaked on their arms, but no wounds to show for it. Stiles adds lack of sleep to his con list of being a werewolf.

“I was busy,” Derek states, outstretching his arms to showcase the room. It looks the same as before, but Stiles gets it. Young werewolves must be a handful. “Now tell me what happened, because nothing you wrote made sense.”

So, Stiles recounts the story, illustrates in great detail the events leading up to the climax of the night. Granted, most of those details include him twiddling away the hours, and the rising impatience shows on Derek’s face.

“I don’t care about how this Lydia character stopped talking to you,” Derek mutters, taking a step forward, “I care about what happened with those people.”

“Okay, okay,” Stiles throws his hands up in defense. He really isn’t looking forward to reaching the height of his story, because it involves him deliberately ignoring Derek’s orders. Which seemed easier to do when Derek wasn’t staring him down with eyes that are on the edge of a red glow. “So I might have bashed up some machines and then two people took notice,” he says hurriedly, and it almost sounds like a question.

Derek is seething, and Stiles is fairly sure he’s discovered how to push Derek out of his control zone. There’s a definitive glow in Derek’s eyes now and his hands are balling into fists at his sides, “Did they catch you?”

Stiles huffs and rolls his eyes, resting his hands on his hips, “Obviously not, or else I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I?”

“How can you be so stupid?” Derek starts, ready to go on a tangent, “Do you have any idea–“

“Excuse me,” Stiles interrupts, pulling all the bravado he can into his voice and posture. He’s head to head with Derek now, staring him right in the eyes and not backing down. “If I hadn’t disobeyed your orders – which, by the way, no more ordering me around – I wouldn’t have found anything out.”

Derek’s face contorts into that of a perplexed child who’s just been told ‘no.’ “What?”

“Yeah, you definitely have some anti-fans. Anti-fans who nearly killed me!” Stiles hisses. The thought of being hit with the energy sends a shiver of dread up his back.

“Stiles, what happened?” Derek asks, voice more stern than before. But this time it sounds like he’s begging and Stiles can’t ignore that.

“I didn’t see them, okay? So don’t ask,” Stiles begins, “but I heard them. I ran and hid, and I heard them. There was a female, sounded like a real bitch. And a male, and he sounded like a real bitch too but at least he didn’t try to shoot me.” Stiles shakes his head with disgust and then gets back on track. “They found a machine I’d hit, and the female sounded disappointed about the impact being _blunt_.”

Derek’s eyes widen at that, and Scott and Isaac share a look of trepidation. His friends have mostly been quiet throughout the story, blending into the shadows behind Derek.

“Yeah,” Stiles states, “doesn’t take a genius to figure out what _that_ means. And then she said she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot. She meant business too, because next thing I know this ball of purple light is blasting past my face. Mere inches away!” Stiles begins to let himself speak a little louder. “I could fucking feel it! So yeah, you’re right. Argent is out to get you. My work is done.”

Except it isn’t because Derek has an onslaught of questions that Stiles doesn’t know how to answer. Scott comes to the rescue, however, or rather, he adds to the drama.

“You know, I bet your crowbar was made by them.”

Stiles stares at him blankly. The thought has occurred to him before, but he has refused to entertain it for too long. Scott seems to be the only one with the guts to bring it up, to voice what they’ve all being thinking. Stiles nods after a few seconds, “Yeah, probably was.”

The thought has clearly occurred to Derek as well, because he says nothing, he just stares at the floor sullenly.

“Are you going to show him?” Isaac asks, shattering the barrier of silence that has settled between them all. Stiles follows his line of vision to Derek.

“Him as in me? Show me what?” Stiles asks tentatively, eyes darting to everyone.

Derek mutters something and hesitantly reaches into the pocket of his jeans, pulling out a small object that Stiles quickly recognizes as a storage chip. “Scott found this last night in his cell, before the shift.”

Stiles supposes that warrants not texting. Derek holds his hand out like he’s about to give the tiny object to Stiles.

“Why are you giving this to me?” Stiles asks. He doesn’t take it.

Derek looks genuinely confused. His brows furrow up and he takes on a pathetic puppy face. He doesn’t quite master it as Scott does. “You’re going to check what’s on it.” He nods, once, as if doing so will make it happen.

“How many times,” Stiles starts but starts to turn his words around mid-sentence. “I’m not part of your pack. Last night? That was a favour to Scott and Isaac. And guess what? It nearly got me killed. And for all I know, that could be nothing.” He gestures to the chip.

“Look,” Derek says sternly, “I’m not asking you because I think you’re an outstanding guy. If I could find someone else, believe me, I would.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest. He _is_ an outstanding guy, he just doesn’t take well to people forcing him into unwelcomed situations.

“Unfortunately,” Derek sighs, like he’s in pain, “you’re really my only option at the moment. Scott told me you’re good at this.” Stiles assumes ‘this’ means decoding whatever is hidden in the storage chip. And thanks to Lydia, he’s alright at doing that sort of thing. Derek continues, “And whatever is in this, it could be something about Argent.”

It’s Scott who pipes up next. “Allison’s last name is Argent.”

All heads whip to Scott, who stares back with confusion. It’s as though he hasn’t realized the implications of what he’s just said. Stiles doesn’t think he does, because it sounded like a throwaway sentence, like he’s just got Allison on the mind.

Everyone starts quizzing him immediately. Isaac wants to know why he didn’t tell him. Stiles wants to know when he found out. But it’s Derek’s question wins out as his voice booms above theirs.

“Who’s Allison?”

“The girl Scott’s going on a date with, tonight,” Isaac answers sourly, there’s a bit of malice to his voice and Scott shoots him a surprised look without saying anything.

“No he’s not,” Derek says with a shake of his head, “not anymore.”

“What?” Scott shouts, and Stiles backs away from the scene as he notices the yellow glow beginning to crest over Scott’s nails. Evidently, the full moon did not take away Scott’s quickness to anger, leaving behind residual bloodlust.

“We’re not taking chances,” Derek says reasonably, “if her last name is Argent I don’t want her anywhere near my pack.”

“No!” Scott says, and now his eyes have taken on a yellow glint. “She might not even be an Argent!”

But Stiles knows she probably is. Her phone was that of the Argent brand, as were her bag and wallet. The girl was practically a walking advertisement when they had met her at the mall.

“Not taking chances,” Derek repeats. His body’s posture is changing, more tense and aggressive than before.

“I don’t want to be part of your back then! Take back it back,” Scott yells, his voice desperate, no longer holding the rage it did only a few seconds ago.

Derek laughs. “Really? Take back your powers?”

“Yeah,” Scott challenges, heaving as though he’s just run a marathon. Uneasiness runs through Stiles, and he wonders if he should leave before things get messy. Before he finds himself in the middle of a fight.

“I can’t do that, Scott,” Derek smirks, his amusement rising with Scott’s anger. That amusement subsequently fades when Scott topples over a table. “You made the choice. What about your mother? You’re telling me this girl is more important than protecting your family?” he shouts and his voice takes on a choked, angry tone.

Stiles is stuck between wanting to throttle Scott for getting so hung up over a girl he barely knows and wanting to throttle Derek for his callousness and obvious knack for manipulation. But he can’t deny how bad Allison looks right now. Can’t deny the risk.

They’re relying too much on theories. None of the information they’ve gathered so far is solid. There are no facts, just guesses. Estimated guesses at best. Estimated guesses that are most likely true because Stiles doesn’t know what else the pair of people could have been looking for – blasting off wolfsbane beams in his direction. Without getting hit by one next time, he doesn’t know how to actually put any of those theories to the test.

“No,” Stiles says, stepping closer and breaking up the fight before it begins. “I think we should take chances. Because if she is an Argent, you can get information from her. And if she isn’t, then there’s no harm done. You want to be a step ahead, right?”

It seems like a smart move, and Stiles feels himself straightening up as he talks.

Derek turns to him, eyes alight with red. It’s apparent his opinion here is not wanted. “Shut up, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugs and keeps his eyes trained on Derek’s, no longer feeling that he’s a threat. “I thought you were desperate?” He receives a grumble in response. Derek hadn’t said anything about being desperate, at least not in so many words. “Don’t growl at me.” Were there not important issues at hand, Stiles would almost smile at the beginning of what could have been a fairly mediocre dog joke. “You don’t have a clue what’s going on. Okay, you have _some_ , but this could get you a lot of information.”

Derek thinks for a second, seriously considering it, if his face is any indicator. He gives a solemn nod. “Okay. Find out if she’s an Argent, and we’ll go from there,” he says, raising his brows. “Does this mean you’ll help?”

“No,” Stiles admits. Because as far as he’s concerned, he just did.

-

Stiles drives Scott home so he can shower and get rid the stench of blood and wolf before his date. The odour fills the jeep when he’s gone and Stiles grimaces the whole way back to his apartment.

The apartment is empty and quiet when he returns and Stiles is almost grateful work has whisked his father away because he wants to collapse the second the door shuts behind him. And he does just that, letting his knees buckle out and slumping down the door until he settles on the carpet. He’s exhausted; his mind is clouded from lack of sleep and it aches dully whenever he tries to make sense of the situation. Stiles falls asleep there at some point, hunched over with his back to the door.

He wakes up to a loud knocking. It starts low at first, and molds itself into a dream. By the time he’s managed to stagger to his feet, it’s impatient. His dad would just walk in – what with having a key – so it’s not him. Stiles is about to look through the peep hole when Isaac’s voice sounds faintly.

“Stiles, I know you’re there. I can smell you.”

Stiles opens the door and lets Isaac in. “I was passed out, sorry.” Isaac strides past him and Stiles eyes him carefully. He looks better than before, no longer bloody and tired. “How did you get here?” Stiles asks.

Isaac flashes a ticket, holding it up for only a second. It’s for the metro, white and red in colour. He tucks it away in his coat. “Train.”

“Why?” Stiles asks, looking over his shoulder and out into the hallway before shutting the door. Derek isn’t with him.

“Thought we could hang out,” Isaac says, kicking off his shoes and walking to the couch. He flops down and rests his feet up onto the coffee table.

Stiles doesn’t mind Isaac doing this, because the coffee table is only a foot free zone when his dad is home. He joins his friend and turns on the TV, kicking up his feet as well. They switch channels rapidly, with blinks of faces and scenes appearing and disappearing on the screen. Stiles lets Isaac have full control of the remote. It’s not often they hang out – werewolf or not – and he’s not sure if Isaac gets to watch shows or movies much anymore. Isaac settles on a film that seems to be a cross between comedy and action.

“I don’t know why you’re so adamant about not helping Derek,” Isaac says during a quiet scene. It comes out too smooth, and Stiles can’t help but wonder if this is why Isaac is really there. He doesn’t say anything else for what feels like a minute, and silence stretches between them. “You’re both fighting for the same cause. Strength comes in numbers.”

And right now, Stiles is alone.

-

Those words stay with him through the night and blanket his mind as he settles into sleep. There is no reason for him to resist helping Derek, other than to fuel his own need to feel independent. He’s in far too deep already and he’s barely moved. Sooner or later he’ll be burned, because being independent in such situations isn’t good.

Stiles sits on the couch, cross-legged and leaning over a bowl of cereal. He ponders his predicament further . He thinks about it in the shower. He thinks about it while watching TV.

As the evening draws near, Stiles decides he could help. There will be rules, and he hasn’t worked out all the kinks, but he’ll figure them out on the way.

With the crowbar in hand, he leaves through the usual way, steadily taking the steps of the fire escape. He throws the weapon on the cluttered backseat of his jeep, atop empty food containers, random bits of paper, and the bandana he’d forgotten to bring in; it’s a mess.

He taps the steering wheel as he drives to Derek’s house, keeping time with the streetlights hitting the dashboard. Traffic moves slowly and it causes him to reconsider once or twice; he doesn't. The city rolls into suburbia and the traffic disperses as he stays on course. Ahead, he notices two vehicles and realizes he’s been trailing them for about twenty minutes. He feels a bit sheepish, because they keep making every turn before he does – it’s like he’s following them.

At first, it seems like a silly game. But as he delves deeper into the suburbs and the roads become less travelled, it brings an eerie feeling that settles inside the jeep. He is about to ready himself to make the turn up the hill leading to the charred mansion when he notices the vehicles ahead making it first.

A chill spikes up through his nerves as they turn onto the road leading to Derek’s; there is no reason for anyone to take it. With wide eyes and a dropped jaw, he nearly slams on the breaks. The game isn’t silly anymore, and the weight of the situation drops on his shoulders with a harsh impact.

His fingers feel numb as he turns the wheel. Panic explodes in his ears and his heart rate rises as quickly as the speedometer. He reaches into his pocket, struggling to get his phone. By the time he manages to free the device, he’s reached the expanse of driveway, just when he hears the loud bang. It sounds like a firework, and then smoke is billowing out of the open ceiling and door.

Still driving, Stiles drops the phone and reaches into the back seat, fingers grasping the cool metal and the fabric beneath it. The jeep swerves a bit from the lack of control he has on it, and jerks to a stop just short of the entrance, nearly crashing into one of the vehicles. He ties the bandana around his face haphazardly, just enough to keep the smoke out – at least he hopes.

The fog already begun to disperse as he runs in. At his feet lies two halves of a ball, hollowed out and warm to the touch. He figures whatever it is, it’s probably what caused the sound and smoke. It smells acrid and fills his head with dizziness but he blinks it away and focuses on his surroundings.

The foyer is empty and if not for haze and the sounds of a struggle echoing against the walls, Stiles wouldn’t even think anything was going on. He follows those sounds, letting light feet and adrenaline guide him through the mist. A panic attack is just itching to sink its claws into his mind, but the anger he feels – the pure drive to get his friends to safety – shuts it out.

He keeps the crowbar off, to keep better hidden in the darkness. He’s a prime weapon, one that can strike with surprise, and he’s not ready to screw that up and give himself away. With a stance low to the ground, he takes corners slow, winding carefully through the house. Stiles twists at a cry of pain and the sound of steps beating into the floor heavily from the direction he had just come from. He doesn’t recognize the shrill voice, but he starts towards it regardless, muscles readying for a hard swing. 

In a moment there is a sharp pain in his shoulder that knocks him off his axis, and then he’s tumbling to the floor. Stiles turns over, limbs quaking from the surprise fall and hands burning from the force of it. Blindly, he swings the crowbar at his assailant, who is shrouded in the shadows of the house, and receives another blow – definitely from a boot – to the arm. The weapons falls from his hands and rolls into the grasp of the attacker.

A woman with the face of a viper stands above him. Her lips are curled into a grin and she looks like she’s ready to kill. She seems to have forgotten him, and is instead running her fingers up the length of the crowbar, some sick fascination playing across her features.

“Third grade A-C-O weapon,” she says. Her voice betrays her face; she sounds bored. ”Where did you find it?”

He recognizes her voice the second the words leave her lips, but isn’t until she asks the question that he realizes where he’s heard her before. She’s the lady from the other night, undoubtedly. Her voice is just as sadistic. Stiles tries stand but she sends a foot to his stomach, driving the breath out of him. “Uh-uh,” she taunts, leaning down with a boot on his chest. “I don’t take kindly to people evading my questions. And I don’t take kindly to people stealing my things. So let’s try this again.”

“Finders keepers,” Stiles manages, “probably shouldn’t leave your stuff in alleys.” He leans up, resting on his elbows.

She matches the smirk hidden beneath his bandana, and turns her attention once more to the crowbar. “I bet you don’t even know what it does.”

Stiles laughs a bit, and he’s not sure if it’s genuine or the bravado rising from his stomach. “I know it does a number on your machines.”

“Ah. So you’ve been pretty busy lately,” she says coolly. It’s not like Stiles is the only one who does it. Beacon Hills is a big place. But he’ll take that title. “Ever think about the number it can do on you?”

Stiles’ brows furrow in confusion, along with fear masquerading as anger. “I’m not a werewolf, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

She grins wickedly, and a dangerous glint flashes in her eyes. “I never said you were. But you’re not part of my group. So you must be with them.”

“No, I’m not,” Stiles says as surely as he can. He reaches up to force her leg away but she simply whacks it with the crowbar. The pain drives up his arm and he bites back a gasp.

“Do you know why we use a crowbar shape?” she asks, her tone transitioning smoothly into that of dangerous seduction. She presses harder on his chest.

Stiles takes in a gulp of air. “Not particularly sure I want to.”

“This grade of A-C-O is pretty low, won’t do much damage. But if you really drive it into a lunatic, and prolong the exposure, it can do wonders.”

Stiles grimaces. “That’s sick.”

“I thought you weren’t with them?” she asks with a knowing smile.

“Doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re disgusting,” he spits out.

The woman turns the crowbar over in her hand. “Even just pressing it against their skin for more than a few seconds can really mess up their day. Can mess up you day too.”

The crowbar ignites in that purple glow and Stiles stifles a gasp. True panic is taking him over. “What are you doing?”

“I don’t like thieves,” she states. Her eyebrows raise up in a way that makes Stiles believe it’s not just that. She sees right through him.

Stiles tries again to push her off, but is only met with an excruciating pain that spreads slowly across his cheek. She’s holding the crowbar – his crowbar – against the right side of his face. She’s not even pressing down; she is just holding it there, letting it sear his skin.  

At first, he can hardly make a sound; he’s choking on the pain. But as the temperature rises a scream rips from his throat which he can barely hear it over the burn. His vision is skewed, blurred by tears; he can see her above him through the narrow slit of his eye. He can feel himself thrashing beneath her, and reaches up to try and grab hold of her leg. He’s throwing all his force into the need to get her away, to get the pain away.

And suddenly, she is.

With his open eye, he catches a glimpse of her being thrown by some dark figure and they dart out of his vision, leaving a streak of red. And then he’s being lifted up and cradled in strong arms. Stiles is faced with the need to pull himself closer for comfort and push himself away because his face still feels like it’s on fire and the body holding him is only adding to the heat. He tries to focus on the person but the pain won’t let him.

When the cold night air hits his skin – it doesn’t feel cold on his face – he manages to keep his eyes trained for more than a few seconds. A werewolf, that much he can tell.

“Derek?” he asks weakly. His voice is breathless, and Stiles hadn’t even been aware he had stopped breathing. The sudden rush of air makes him sob, and it feels like his face is breaking. Like the bones are just crumbling beneath his skin.

He receives no response other than a grunt. It’s Derek all right.

The door of a car opens and Stiles is dropped gently into a seat he recognizes belongs to the jeep. A hand reaches into his pocket and he can hear the clinking of his keys, then his seatbelt is being pulled over his body and secured tightly. In moments the driver’s door opens and Derek takes the wheel. The engine sparks to life and Stiles is about to moan how to drive it but Derek is already violently turning the vehicle and speeding away. Stiles supposes driving a non-hover vehicle is pretty easy to get.

“Scott and Isaac?” he asks quickly. The words are his own, but he doesn’t feel himself form them.

“They got out right away, I made sure,” Derek says, barreling down the hill.

“My crowbar,” Stiles croaks out with heightened panic, he tries to sit up but he feels drunk. He’s pretty sure he looks drunk too, all curled up in a sloppy position in the passenger seat.

“I got it, it’s in the back,” Derek assures him and then laughs in a pitiful way, “not so fun when it’s used against you, is it?”

Stiles tries to shake his head but pain shoots across his cheek. It’s a violent shudder that tears up across his face and instead he lets out a whimper. “It burns.”

As they drive, Stile regains his vision. The bright lights of the city hurt, however, and he finds himself shutting his eyes to avoid the headache that splits through his skull.

The jeep stops and Stiles hears the sound of a door opening and the jeep shifts slightly as Derek hops out. His own door opens and Derek undoes his seatbelt before taking him in his arms again. Stiles definitely wants to struggle now, because it’s Derek and because the warmth from his body is not a nice feeling. The view of his neighbourhood catches his eye and then is obscured as Derek moves him, shifting him around as they near the fire escape. One of Derek’s arms now cradles his whole body, while the other works on climbing up the ladder. Derek lifts the window and ducks into the dark room.

Cushions rush up and meet Stiles’ body, enveloping him in familiar comfort. He lets out a shaky breathe, trying to stifle the pain. It pulses out in quick bursts. Derek stands above him, inspecting the damage; he’s human again, face soft with concern.

“It burns,” Stiles moans, twisting a hand into his sheets. He feels like doing so will help with the ache. It doesn’t.

“Do you have ice?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods. Slowly. Fast movements seem to make it worse.

“Where’s the kitchen?”

Stiles motions weakly to the door, carelessly flicking his wrist and mutters, “Just look around.”

“Don’t touch it,” Derek says with an air of authority, before retreating to the hallway.

And Stiles tries not to, but a wicked itching joins the burn, and the two sensations team up to add even more discomfort. It feels like there are ants crawling underneath his skin, ants that are on fire, spreading the flames to one another. He wants to peel his skin away. The urge grows in intensity as the seconds tick by, and he raises his hand.

Derek must have found the kitchen because he’s back in less than a minute with a makeshift icepack, just as Stiles reaches up. The bed creaks under his weight and suddenly he’s on top of Stiles, yanking Stiles’ hand away.

“I said don’t touch it. You never listen,” his voice doesn’t match his touch. It’s irate and scolding, unlike the icepack pressing gently against Stiles’ cheek. For a few moments it feels nice; it soothes him.

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles asks. He lets his eyes flicker to Derek’s and studies him. Derek’s being too gentle, too nice. It feels unnatural, like everything is just some pain laden dream. It doesn’t make any sense.

“You looked out for me,” Derek admits with a shrug, still holding the icepack. It’s poorly construed, just ice wrapped in a dish towel. He avoids Stiles’ gaze, and instead focuses his own further down Stiles’ face. “You came back when you hit me. I guess I owe you one.”

Stiles regrets hitting him now, because the burning is slowly increasing again. The initial freeze of the ice is receding, leaving the pain to make a vengeful return. He wouldn’t wish it on anyone, except perhaps that woman. Stiles definitely thinks he could wish it on her.

“How did you know I was there?” Stiles implores further, chewing on the inside of his lip to combat the ache in his cheek.

Derek looks puzzled. “Scott and Isaac,” he says after a pause, as if it’s obvious.

“It burns,” Stiles says. He sounds like a broken record. He wants to laugh, to comment on the fact. But he knows sarcasm won’t help him now.

“I know,” Derek says, not at all annoyed by Stiles’ repetition, “you’ll just have to wait this out. Complaining isn’t going to help.”

Stiles grumbles out a strained protest, “How long?”

Derek shrugs. “It took me–“

Stiles lets out a whine because it feels worse. Agony suddenly grips him tightly around the skull, digging its claws into his cheek. He doesn’t want to cry in front of Derek because he already feels so weak, but he feels them flowing freely now. He tastes blood, pouring from the raw tear in his lip where he had been gnawing at it.

“There’s something we can try,” Derek says hesitantly. “I saw it once, something similar to this.”

“Okay, get on with it,” Stiles urges through the copper taste in his mouth. Panic shoots through him, momentarily distracting him from the pain because Derek’s leaning closer and Stiles has no idea why.

Derek places his palm on Stiles’ cheek, there’s a sudden spike in the burn, and it’s like the crowbar is resting against his face again. He grips Derek other arm, fingers closing tight around his forearm, and Derek lets him even though Stiles is digging his finger nails into his skin. Derek simply lets him hold on, and steadies Stiles with his free hand, matching how Stiles is grasping his arm, only much gentler.

It’s a terrible pain. But it subsides, leaving a cool trickle in its wake. Stiles looks up at Derek, meeting his eyes. Derek looks deep in concentration, and for the most part, fine. Then the colour begins to drain from his face, he has his lip trapped between his teeth, and he’s tilting his head trying to keep focus. He lurches forwards, like a sick animal and breaks the contact.

“I can’t,” he says, swallowing hard. Derek backs away, blinking his eyes a few times. They look out of focus and disorientated.

“What was that?” Stiles asks, taking in a few rapid breaths. “What the fuck?” He can still feel the burn, but it’s dull in comparison to just a few minutes ago.

Derek shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the wolfsbane now running through his system. “I just pulled the energy out,” he pants, “I said I saw it done, but it wasn’t wolfsbane then. I wasn’t thinking.”

 _And now you’ve set yourself up for a fun time_ , Stiles thinks. Hours ago, he might have laughed a bit at the thought. Now, he can’t imagine being so cruel.

Derek stands on wobbling legs and makes his way to the window. His journey across the room is riddled with swaying movement and Stiles expects him to fall at least twice. He reaches the window, steadies himself with a hand on the sill, and begins to lean out.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asks, and Derek shrugs. “You don’t have anywhere to go. And I don’t think you’ll even make it down the ladder.” He doesn’t know what he’s doing, doesn’t know exactly when his shift in opinion happened. But he’s willing to bet it happened somewhere between Derek carrying him to safety and pulling the wolfsbane from the injury. “You can stay here. For tonight at least.”

Derek looks back at him with the face of a zombie and nods. He steps back, a hand to his temple, and lowers himself to the floor. Stiles reaches behind himself and pulls one of the pillows, throwing it to Derek.

“Here.”

Derek doesn’t catch it and it hits him square in the face. He shoots a glare at Stiles, who can really only smile back. Stiles watches as Derek settles, he wraps his arms around the pillow, mostly cradling it to his chest instead of resting his head upon it. Stiles leans back, twisting a bit to get in a comfortable position.

“Derek?” Stiles asks, and receives a muffled grumble. He toys with the thought of saying thanks. “My dad really wanted to solve what happened with your family. He tried hard.”

It’s the closest to a thanks he thinks he can manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably should mention that I totally got the idea of Stiles wearing the bandana from a BlackSpark vid. Which. Yeah.  
> But it came in handy!


	6. Hide Me

It’s not the sound of a buzzing phone that pulls him from his sleep, but the sound of forceful - borderline violent - gagging. Stiles shoots up in his bed, all the memories of the night before still fresh in his mind. He looks to the source of the sound. Derek is leaning out the window, body racked with dry heaves. Stiles cringes and sighs because really, right outside the window? Where he has to step? It could be worse, he decides, as he steps onto the floor. He makes his way around the bed to where Derek is; his head still aches, but it’s distant now.

“Hey,” he starts awkwardly, “are you…“

Derek turns around and he looks like he’s had a hard night of partying. His eyes look aged and hold a fair amount of displeasure; his skin is pale and beaded with sweat. He’s not okay, so Stiles doesn’t bother finishing his question. Instead, he turns and walks to the door of his bedroom, venturing out into the hallway of the apartment.

Stiles strides to the kitchen, carelessly grabbing a tall glass from a cupboard and filling it with water from the filter.

“Stiles?”

He jumps at his father’s voice, nearly dropping the glass. Only a little bit of water dribbles over the side. Stiles turns to the concerned face staring at him from a few feet away.

“Are you okay?” his father asks.

Stiles raises a brow and tilts his head slightly. “What?”

His father mirrors his movement. “You’ve been throwing up all morning?” It’s phrased like a question even though it’s not.

Eyes wide, Stiles nods. Slow at first and then quickly. “Oh, yeah. Nasty bug going around. Scott has it, must have passed it on to me.”

“And what happened to your face?”

“My face?” Stiles asks, trying to keep his cool. He has no idea what’s wrong with his face and he’s really hoping it’s not purple or anything. He catches his reflection in the mirror hanging behind his father and is relieved it isn’t. There’s just a red mark on his cheek. “A rash.”

His father doesn’t look convinced.

“Yeah that bug, a nasty one I’m telling you,” he begins to ramble, “you should see Scott, his is way worse.”

His father still doesn’t look convinced but Stiles is able to make it back to his room without any further questions.

Derek is in the same position, slumped against the space beneath the window sill with one leg bent at the knee. He looks personally offended when Stiles hold out the glass of water.

“I’m not thirsty,” he mutters, “I’ll just throw it up anyway.”

Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. “Okay, one, you’re dehydrated,” he throws up the index finger on his free hand. “And two, I’m pretty sure you’re going to throw up anyways, so at least you’ll have something in your system.”

Derek’s brows furrow, but he takes the glass.

Retching sounds better than actual vomiting, Stiles concludes, and he makes a point of remembering to be careful the next time he goes down the fire escape. Derek is out the window for the better half of the morning, and Stiles finds himself making multiple trips to the kitchen and back to refill the glass. For the most part Stiles sits in bed and reads off his tablet and does his best to ignore Derek.

Stiles doesn’t really want to think about Derek at all at the moment, because doing so brings up questions and feelings he has been trying to avoid since the previous night. Dealing with Derek was a lot easier when he could block everything out in the name of dislike. It’s hard to admit Derek might actually be an okay guy, and it’s even harder to admit Derek helped him. The whole thing is seriously messing with Stiles’ opinion on him.

“Was it this bad last time?” Stiles asks, because he figures it’s rude to just not say anything. And Derek’s been pretty quiet for a good twenty minutes. “I mean, you were fine when I got to you? Although, I guess it’s only been like twelve hours.”

Derek shoots him what feels like an unwarranted glare. “I didn’t have as much to filter out. I didn’t feel as bad, but it’s pretty close.”

The woman had said the weapon wasn’t supposed to kill werewolves, just give them a hard time. So it only makes sense Derek would be feeling worse with more of it in his system.

Stiles crosses his legs and leans forward. “How did you do it anyway? Like, what did you even do?” He doesn’t know how to properly phrase it.

“Well, it’s energy. I focused on pulling it towards me, sort of like a magnet,” Derek states. “That probably doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Stiles shrugs. “No, but that could be because you’re not good at explaining things.”

“I think you should be nice to me, after what I did. I really regret it,” Derek says, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes in attempt to blink a headache away.

“Why?” Stiles asks. It’s the question he’s been avoiding and he’s really not sure why. “Did you do it so I’d join you?”

There’s a moment of alarm in Derek’s face, but it slides into something more stoic. “Did it work?”

At least it wasn’t something sappy, but it still leaves him feeling a bit used. And just when he was starting to like the guy too. For some reason, Stiles can’t really hold it against him, because he did help.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You are such an asshole. You should really win some fucking award for being so manipulative.”

“Hey!” Derek snaps, but there’s no bite to it. “Be nice, remember?”

“I’m shaking in my boots,” Stiles smirks. “You didn’t scare me a month ago, and you definitely don’t scare me after last night.” Which is sort of a lie, because Derek scared him for that first bit. “And to answer your question, it didn’t work because I was on my way to offer my help.”

He can’t help but smile when Derek gives him an annoyed look. Derek doesn’t even have to move a muscle in his face, his eyes tell all.

“That woman, she was the one from the alley,” Stiles says, suddenly withdrawing into himself. It feels like something he should have brought up earlier – earlier as in last night.

Derek’s eyes grow wide and Stiles notices they still look a bit disorientated. “What? Did she recognize you? What did she say?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No. She knows I stole, which is why she attacked me. But I think it’s actually because she knew I was on your side. We didn’t really chat much. She called you a lunatic.”

Derek laughs at that, and then winces as another headache crashes through him.

“Yeah, I don’t know what she was talking about, might have been transferring herself onto you. And then she mentioned something about A-C-O,” Stiles says, twiddling his thumbs. “Does that ring a bell? Apparently that’s what the crowbar is, a third grade A-C-O weapon she called it. Personally I prefer the term glowbar.”

Derek perks up. “No. But that sounds useful. Also, don’t call it that. Please don’t call it that.”

“Did you kill her?” Stiles asks.

“Not enough time,” Derek says and it’s almost endearing in the way his tone changes to that of subtle anger.

It’s the first real conversation Stiles has had with Derek, and he wonders if he’d been too quick to judge. Although, it’s not like anyone could blame him because they had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot.

\- 

It occurs to them that Isaac and Scott haven’t contacted them yet, and they find out the reason for that could be because Derek’s phone is dead. Stiles’ phone is still in his jeep; at least he hopes it is. He nudges Derek aside with his knee, who protests about how even that hurts, and leans out the window to inspect the carnage before climbing outside. Most of the vomit has slipped through the grates of the landing but Stiles still carefully steps out.

“Oh hurry up,” Derek says, “it’s not that bad.”

“If you fucking push me out and I step in your puke, I will spin you around,” Stiles retorts, because if a little nudge gives him vertigo, spinning around is going to mess him up really good.

“Then I might just throw up on you.”

“Touché,” Stiles says and finds his footing.

He starts down the ladder and makes good time in reaching solid ground, then heads for the jeep. The phone isn’t easy to find at first but after a few minutes of searching he grabs it from under the driver’s seat. Stiles takes the ladder with good speed once more, and makes a jump for the window. It’s an exaggerated movement, and it’s mostly to bother Derek.

“Ten missed calls,” Stiles says, inspecting the phone, “and fifteen texts.”

“Call him,” Derek says.

“Way ahead of you,” Stiles replies without looking up.

He’s already begun dialing Scott’s number. He’s also decided to vis-call. Scott’s panicked face appears on the screen during the first ring.

“Are you okay?”

Stiles nods and reaches up to his face, brushing his fingers across the mark. It aches when he touches it. “Yeah, this is just residual damage. You’re alpha’s pretty beat up though.” He flashes the phone to Derek, who is still slumped in his spot; he looks past the phone and stares at Stiles blankly.

“What happened?” Scott asks when Stiles turns the phone back to his own face.

“Uh,” Stiles stammers a bit, and can feel his ears grow hot at the thought of trying to explain the full story. But there’s no way to get around it so he just condenses the story. “He used some magic magnet thing on me.” Stiles can feel eyes rolling at him from across the room.

Stiles’ short story doesn’t help matters at all and he ends up telling the whole story in detail, vivid detail, because it there is no middle ground with Stiles Stilinski.

“So you’re going to join us?” Isaac asks in the background.

“Not like that,” Stiles says, “it hurts enough being hit with wolfsbane energy without the added pleasure of being a werewolf.” He looks over at Derek who is still sitting on the floor like some hung over partygoer. “I’m helping though, so no more complaining.” Then he adds, “So long as you don’t wolf out and try to eat me.”

“What’s the plan now?” Scott asks.

Derek lifts up his arm and makes a motion with his hands that clearly means he wants the phone. Stiles crawls across the bed and reaches for him, dropping the phone in his hand.

“I’m going to get Stiles to take a look at the chip, but in the meantime, stay put. You and Isaac stay there, I’ll stay here,” he says. “We can’t do anything until we find a new place, so we’ll have to work separately and keep each other informed.”

With concern written on his face, clear as day, Stiles whips his head up to Derek. “I thought I said one night? As in last night? As in you can’t just invite yourself over.”

\- 

While mumbling something about uninvited guests, Stiles loads the storage chip into the computer on the desk in the corner of his room. Three transparent and collapsible screens span across the length of the table and his desktop springs to life on the screen.

“You have a lot of expensive things for living in a place like this,” Derek says as Stiles pulls up the location of the chip. Stiles ignores him because he’s just opened the file and chaos erupts across the monitors.

“Shit,” Stiles drawls, eyes darting across the massive code. Scott and Isaac had definitely given him a lot of credit.

“What?” Derek asks and leans over from where he sits against the wall to catch a view of the screen.

Stiles leans to the side and looks over his shoulder, “This is too advanced.”

Derek’s face drops.

“I could,” Stiles begins, “send it to a friend? She’s really good with this sort of stuff. She can hack anything.”

“No,” Derek says sternly, “this isn’t going to some third-party.”

“Lydia isn’t a third-party,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “she’s like, one of my best friends and I trust her.”

“But I don’t,” Derek grits through his teeth slowly.

“She probably won’t even look too much into it,” Stiles says, although he’s not entirely confident about that. If they want someone who won’t pry, they should be looking to Danny Mahealani, but Stiles was never close to him and last he’d heard Danny had been caught whilst hacking. “Look, I can try my best if you want, but bottom line? It will take me too long to even figure out what I’m doing. Lydia can get it done fast.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, just glares. Stiles nods once, knowing he’s won. He turns to the screen again, and begins to write up an explanation to send to Lydia along with the file.

_Hey, can you decrypt this? Don’t ask. Seriously._

As much as he hopes it holds at least a few answers, he really doesn’t want it to be anything explosive.

Lydia replies swiftly, feigning offense that Stiles asked if she could. She says she’ll look into it.

\- 

Much to Stiles’ relief, his father steers clear of him whenever he makes an appearance; the bug story seems to have stuck. And at dinner he doesn’t even question when Stiles excuses himself with a plate full of food. He takes more than he knows he’d be able to eat, and slides the left overs to Derek.

“You haven’t eaten anything all day,” Stiles says when Derek looks down at the plate suspiciously. “And if you’re staying I should probably feed you.” He resists any obvious dog jokes. 

“Aren’t you going to start me on soup?” Derek asks and Stiles just snickers.

Derek looks better after eating. Colour streams back into his face, and his eyes look brighter, if still a little disorientated when he has to refocus on things after moving his head. By eleven he’s moving freely around the room, stretching his limbs. Stiles even lets him out into the apartment, after making sure his father is sleeping.

\- 

Stiles is happy his father isn’t the type of dad who barges into their son’s room before knocking. If he was, Stiles would have to explain why a twenty-four year old man – who his father would most likely identify as Derek Hale in an instant – is sprawled out on the floor.

“Be there is a sec!” Stiles calls, trying to hide the panic in his voice as he lightly prods Derek with his foot.

“Just letting you know I’ll probably be gone all day, just got a call about something serious.”

Stiles nearly trips on the way to the door, opening it just enough to pop his head through the crack. “Serious? Like what?”

“Confidential,” his father says simply.

Stiles accepts defeat and slides down the door after closing it. “Shit, that could have ended badly.”

“I thought your dad liked me,” Derek says, emerging from the closet like a well-kept affair.

“I don’t think he’d appreciate me keeping you in my room without mentioning it,” Stiles replies and Derek lets out a small laugh.

Derek is a much better conversationalist when he’s not doubling over in pain and leaning out the window. Conversation comes easily and before long Stiles is yapping his face off; Derek is even able to keep up. Stiles leaves the room to get food but for most of the morning they stay in the room and just talk, both happy to think about things other than Argent. They keep to trivial things, the way acquaintances do. Stiles tries to ignore the warmth growing in his stomach. He blames it on the sun streaming into the room, despite having his back towards it.

Stiles moves to the desk during a break in their conversation, powering on the computer to check if Lydia has finished with the file. He can feel Derek behind him, reading over his shoulder and fogging up his skin with his breath. Stiles freezes at the sudden warmth exhaling over his neck. It causes his own breath to hitch in his throat, and a shiver to run across his back.

“Do you have to breathe down my neck?” Stiles snaps, doing his best to hide the waver in his voice.

“Oh. Yeah,” Derek says almost sheepishly, and backs off. Stiles’ lungs start to work again, but the prickling sensation still travels up and down his spine.

Derek starts awkwardly combing the room, shuffling objects around and familiarizing himself with Stiles’ life. Stiles isn’t even sure Derek is really looking at anything. But it bothers him. He turns his head, about to tell Derek to just pull up a chair, and freezes when he sees what Derek has in his hand.

“Who is this?” he asks innocently enough, flashing the frame towards him. There’s a photograph inside; the picture shows a woman and a boy, smiling side by side. Derek’s obviously referring to the woman; the boy looks like Stiles, because he is Stiles. Only younger – so much younger – with a mind closed off to the troubling world.

Stiles misses a beat, “That’s my mom.”

Derek stares at him for a few moments, studying his face. Stiles figures he must not be good at hiding his emotions because Derek seems to know. “What happened?”

“Remember the Raxion leak a few years back?” Stiles asks after hesitating for a moment.

Raxion was an experimental energy that Beacon Hills had been tasked in researching. A lot of money and work was invested into stabilizing it, because while it would surely solve a lot of economic and environmental problems, it was also unusable, just out of reach. It was highly toxic as well, but safety measures were put in place. Although, those don’t always work when one plays with fire.

“I thought that was contained,” Derek knits his brows.

“Not if you worked in the factory,” Stiles says glumly. He begins to fidget with the sleeves of his sweater, picking at the fabric.

“She worked there?” Derek asks, his face going soft.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, and scours the room with his eyes to focus on something, anything. “I remember my dad pulled me from school when it happened. It was on all the screens at school, the news coverage. It was on all the buildings. And I still didn’t really know what was going on.”

Stiles remembers driving downtown. He caught glimpses of headlines, the people in the streets just watching. Some cried and he knew by then something bad had happened.

Derek stares at him with a hard expression now. He knows what that feels like.

“We got to visit her,” Stiles continues. “You know, after they had everything quarantined. She was behind this glass, and it had these weird arm things that she could put her arms through. We hugged. But it wasn’t the same. At first, nothing seemed human about it. But I guess that was the point, right?” Stiles talks distantly, because it’s really the only way he can. “Putting a big mote between us and them. Now, I appreciate it. Because at least it was something. I didn’t go back to see her after that day. My dad went though. He went everyday as the poisoning got worse. He’d pretend nothing was wrong when he got home, but I could tell.”

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles hadn’t even realized he’s been shaking. He looks down at his hands, watching them twitch.

“Do you know what happens when you get Raxion poisoning?” he asks, looking up to meet Derek’s eyes before returning his gaze to his hands.

“Stiles, you can stop,” Derek says again. It sounds like an order.

Except Stiles can’t stop. Because he’s just been thrown into a chemistry class from last year. They had to learn about Raxion. It was part of curriculum. It was one of the things Stiles was content with knowing nothing about. So he had been dreading the class for days. He thought maybe they would just read mindless paragraphs. But no. They looked at fucking slides and it sent Stiles over the edge. Raxion poisoning caused people to bleed out of their eyes, mouth, ears. It had been years since Stiles had a panic attack, but there he was, hyperventilating on the floor in front of everyone.

Mr. Harris had told him to stop being a baby. Scott jumped from his seat, shouted something about how Stiles’ mom had died from Raxion. Harris shut up real fast. The class sided with Stiles, and no one made fun of him or treated him too differently. But that could have been because everyone hated Harris.

“Would you have been able to help her?” Stiles asks, still lost in thought. He meets Derek eyes and holds them.

“I don’t know,” Derek admits, “but I imagine so? It’s energy, and as long as there’s no wolfsbane.” He looks guilty, but it’s not his fault. Stiles isn’t about to get angry at him for not doing anything.

“Anyway,” Stiles says, shaking the memory away, “come here. Lydia just sent the file.”

_Stilinski, you owe me. I was expecting something interesting but all I got was boring. Hopefully you find something in this because I certainly didn’t._

“What is it?” Derek asks, peering over Stiles’ shoulder.

“It’s just,” Stiles mumbles, staring at the file. His brows pull up in confusion. “Words.”

Except they’re not just words, Stiles comes to understand as he begins to read off the screen. It reads like a bland essay at first, and he wouldn’t be surprised if this was where Lydia had stopped. However, Lydia didn’t know what to look for.

“Argent founder, Francois Argent has theorized about a hypothetical energy, C Energy,” Stiles says, barely above a whisper. He turns to Derek, eyes wide and lips parted. “Shit.”

“C Energy?” Derek asks, eyes still glued to the screen.

“It says here,” Stiles trails off as he relocates the sentence, “that it’s a type of energy that attributes can be applied to. The concept didn’t make it too far though.” Stiles points at a line further down. “Deemed too farfetched.” He pauses for a moment. “Argent’s been around for a long time. And they’re fucking rich, doesn’t seem too farfetched that they would go ahead and find a way.”

Stiles is tired of feeling confused, which seems to be an ongoing thing now that Derek is in his life. But then it hits him like a brick to the face, sans the stinging pain.

“A-C-O,” Stiles says simply. Derek gives him a perplexed look. “A- _C_ -O”

At that Derek’s face drops to an expression of surprise.

“You said how the crowbar is laced, like it has a base energy. What if C Energy is that base?” Stiles and Derek share mirrored faces of awe and horror. “What if Argent’s been after werewolves for a long time?”

“It doesn’t explain why.”

“No,” Stiles says, “but it explains how. They know how you work, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to track you with machines.” Stiles runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, trying to form the proper words to explain his thoughts. “What if they found out a way to turn it against you? Your energy? Like they’re hunters.”

Stiles doesn’t know how else to say it without being forward; he doesn’t want to come out and say that he thinks Argent experimented on werewolves, and stripped their energy. However, Derek seems to know what Stiles means, because his face grows dark and his brows pull in slightly. It’s almost heartbreaking. Stiles wants to reach out and give Derek a comforting pat on the shoulder, but he doesn’t.

“I think my family knew about Argent coming after us,” Derek says, after a stall in the conversation. “They were doing research.”

“How do you know?” Stiles questions, tilting his head.

“I don’t,” he shrugs, “I just think it makes sense. Laura had the Argent logo on her tablet, the storage chip was hidden in a chamber. I don’t think they were close to finding out anything, at least no closer than we are.”

Stiles leaves Derek to his own accord and walks to the kitchen to make dinner. He turns the TV on, cooking with the sounds of the six p.m. news as background noise. Derek joins him after only a few minutes; he looks oddly out of place, like he’s not sure if he should really be wandering outside the confining walls of Stiles’ room.

“What are you making?” he asks, taking a seat on the couch.

“Scrambled eggs,” Stiles says, glancing over his shoulder to see Derek make a funny face. “What? You don’t like eggs? Are you allergic?”

“That’s breakfast food.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and serves up the food onto plates. He walks over to the living room and hands Derek a plate. “Well pretend it’s breakfast.” He takes a seat beside him, lifting up his legs and resting his feet on the coffee table.

They eat silently. Derek seems content enough with the meal, as measly as it is. Stiles gave him a larger portion and he does feel like it’s a cheap meal but at least it’s real food and not a frozen dish. He tries to make small chit-chat, to get their minds off of Argent. They’ve got some sort of transference going on, both feeding off each other’s negative attitude.

He manages to whip up a nicely constructed conversation about the time Jackson made advances on him. Derek is lulled out of his shell for a few minutes, and laughs quietly at Stiles’ expense. It doesn’t last long. A news story comes on that has them both alert.

“Derek Hale is believed to be involved in the murders of Ulrich and Leveque,” the news reporter says, sitting tall and straight-faced. Stiles hadn’t caught their first names, but he knows they must be the hunters from the other night. “He may also be connected to the fire that burned down his house eight years ago. There is currently a city-wide search for Hale and police ask that people not approach him as he is armed and dangerous.”

“You killed them?” Stiles says, eyes wide and mouth dropped.

Derek has his face in his hands, and is breathing deeply. “No,” he sighs, “I might have injured them though. I had to, otherwise Scott and Isaac would have been seriously injured, or killed. I didn’t finish them off.”

Stiles turns back to the screen because there’s more. “Due to a series of disturbances across the city, security will be increased until further notice.”

“Fuck,” Derek breathes out, taking hold of his own hair in frustration.

“Yeah, not going to lie, this is bad,” Stiles says with a sigh. “But like, we can work around it. We’ll go out at nighttime, no one will notice. Beacon Hills doesn’t care. Don’t know what they mean about upping the security. I doubt they will. They do it from time to time and nothing happens.”

“Stiles,” Derek says in a voice that means _shut up_. He’s leaning forward, on the verge of a shift from the looks of it. “I liked you a lot more when you didn’t talk so much.”

Stiles sighs again, because it’s not his fault Derek is okay to be around, that he’s easy to talk to. That he actually enjoys his company. Stiles liked Derek a lot more when he didn’t.


End file.
